"I've made an exhaustive collection of good American stuff, old and new. I don't mean the usual Longfellow-Whittier thing—in fact, most of it's modern."
He stepped to one of the walls and, seeing that it was expected of him, Anthony arose and followed.
"Look!"
Under a printed tag Americana he displayed six long rows of books, beautifully bound and, obviously, carefully chosen.
"And here are the contemporary novelists."
Then Anthony saw the joker. Wedged in between Mark Twain and Dreiser were eight strange and inappropriate volumes, the works of Richard Caramel—"The Demon Lover," true enough ... but also seven others that were execrably awful, without sincerity or grace.
Unwillingly Anthony glanced at Dick's face and caught a slight uncertainty there.
"I've put my own books in, of course," said Richard Caramel hastily, "though one or two of them are uneven—I'm afraid I wrote a little too fast when I had that magazine contract. But I don't believe in false modesty. Of course some of the critics haven't paid so much attention to me since I've been established—but, after all, it's not the critics that count. They're just sheep."
For the first time in so long that he could scarcely remember, Anthony felt a touch of the old pleasant contempt for his friend. Richard Caramel continued:
"My publishers, you know, have been advertising me as the Thackeray of America—because of my New York novel."