"The Round Adventure" was published in mid-October.
It sold seven hundred and thirty-two copies, counting the colonial sales. A few reviews, closely packed between brimming columns of war-tidings, mentioned the book in terms of "promising" "whimsical charm" "pleasant fantasy"; others dismissed it as "inadequate"; one critic remarked caustically that "Kay Rollinson" might with profit have been sent for awhile to the front-line trenches.... "In these times, when men are not afraid to face death every minute from every quarter of earth and air and water, we have small patience with these morbid self-analytic heroes beloved of the lady novelist. Gareth Temple—of whom, despite the masculine pseudonym, one strongly suspects the sex—must learn that there are many different names for 'funk'; but nowadays, only one cure for it."
Mr. Campbell congratulated Gareth, absently, on the appearance of the novel; said he would read it—and forgot. One elderly lady in Somerset wrote to the author, saying what a beautiful and helpful message the story had held for her. Locker and Swyn were not encouraged to do more than advertise "The Round Adventure" inconspicuously for a month; and then resigned themselves to the comparatively slight financial loss. Unlike Campbell, however, who in all cases would rather exploit himself as a good publisher than prove his client a bad author, Forrester was careful to inform Mr. Temple that they were depressed over the sales.
And there was no perceptible increase of respect in Jimmy's manners.
As Patricia had remarked, these were times of war, and books had temporarily ceased to matter.
So many dreams ... so much of exultation, of strife and heart-sickness and envy, of sacrifice, and of rebounding hope ... all of life's issues since a year and a half hooked on to the single obsession of a book written and a book published.
And—"Is this all?" Gareth could not bring himself to believe that this was indeed all.
"I shall never dream again...."
He was resentful of this over-toppling unheeding weight that had fallen athwart his frail creation, and crushed it, and crushed it out of sight and out of existence. The more resentful, since all about him were real sufferings, real flesh-and-blood losses; pain and suspense; and in comparison, the failure of his book counted for much neither in his own sight nor in anyone else's. One could not even feel noble about it; merely ... tepid.
He was not employed upon war-work. There was still sufficient to occupy him as reader to Leslie Campbell. Books about Germany were being published by the score; exposing German militarism and German ethics; reminiscences of English governesses who had resided in Germany; translations from the German writers.... People were curious to understand this apparently civilized scientific philosophic folk who had so startlingly revealed themselves savage and of insensitive honour.