Every one was at once intently silent.
"I am," he continued, "the author of 'The Purple Kangaroo.'"
The silence became deeper. The audience were politely impressed, and the heavy villain did a bit of dumb show with the leading serious, which only needed to have been a trifle better to have proved convincing.
"Yet," continued the author, "owing to the popular interest in an imminent war and a lack of energy on the part of my publishers, the book doesn't sell."
"Impossible!" exclaimed Mr. Smith. "Impossible! Why, I was saying only the other day to Henry Irving, 'Hen,' I said—I call him 'Hen' for short,—'that book—'"
"What you say doesn't cut any ice," broke in Spotts. "What were you saying, sir?"
"I was about to remark," continued Banborough, "that what the novel needs is advertising. For an author to make the round of the shops is so old an artifice that any tradesman would see through it."
"It is," interjected the tragedian. "I have more than once demanded the lower right-hand box when I was playing the leading rôle."
"And always got it," added Spotts. The silence was appalling, and Cecil rushed into the breach, saying:
"It's occurred to me, however, that if a number of people, apparently in different walks of life, were to call at the various bookshops and department stores of the city, demanding copies of 'The Purple Kangaroo,' and refusing to be satisfied with excuses, it might create a market for the book."