‘It’s more than likely you might get the thing accepted—’
‘Oh, then why not?’ she interrupted eagerly, with bright eyes.
‘Because it isn’t literature, but a little bit of Nancy’s mind and heart, not to be profaned by vulgar handling. To sell it for hard cash would be horrible. Leave that to the poor creatures who have no choice. You are not obliged to go into the market.’
‘But, Lionel, if it is a bit of my mind and heart, it must be a good book. You have often praised books to me just on that account because they were genuine.’
‘The books I praised were literature. Their authors came into the world to write. It isn’t enough to be genuine; there must be workmanship. Here and there you have a page of very decent English, and you are nowhere on the level of the ordinary female novelist. Indeed—don’t take it ill—I was surprised at what you had turned out. But—’
He finished the sentence in smoke wreaths.
‘Then I’ll try again. I’ll do better.’
‘Never much better. It will never be literature.’
‘What does that matter? I never thought myself a Charlotte Bronte or a George Eliot. But so many women make money out of novels, and as I had spare time I didn’t see why I shouldn’t use it profitably. We want money, and if it isn’t actually disgraceful—and if I don’t use my own name—’
‘We don’t want money so badly as all that. I am writing, because I must do something to live by, and I know of nothing else open to me except pen-work. Whatever trash I turned out, I should be justified; as a man, it’s my duty to join in the rough-and-tumble for more or less dirty ha’pence. You, as a woman, have no such duty; nay, it’s your positive duty to keep out of the beastly scrimmage.’