“I’m sorry Ada is out,” Peter was saying, and Sam was rather startled to realize that he had not missed her. But he was sure of his position with her: it was his position for her which he had to consolidate. He proceeded to consolidate it by going in search of Stewart, and found him where he expected to find him, in a bar.
“I want your advice,” said Sam.
“Whisky for the gentleman, Flora,” said Stewart. “That’s my advice and you’ll get no other till you’ve taken this.”
Sam took it. Business is business and, beyond that, his thrifty prejudices were less necessary now.
“You’re not unteachable,” said Stewart. “It’s a point in your favour. The proper thing when you’ve drunk that is to ask me if I will have another. My reply will be in the affirmative and we shall then retire, with sustaining refreshment, into that corner, where I will advise you for as long as you can continue to buy whisky for me and drink level. I hate a shirker.”
Sam told him of his partnership with Carter. “I’m always troubled about you,” said Stewart. “I can never make up my mind whether you’re too clever to live or whether you were born with luck instead of brain. Obviously, you will publish novels.”
“There are so many kinds,” said Sam.
“No. Only two. Mine and the rest. But I suffer from honesty. Therefore I tell you that my novel has been refused by every publisher in London. It is waiting,” he said hopefully, “for a man with courage. The difference between it and the Yellow Book is that my book is yellow.”
“I see,” said Sam. “But I have gone into the publishing trade to make my living.”
“On the whole,” decided Stewart, “you are more knave than fool. And you would call it the publishing trade. It’s a benighted world, but there are still some publishers who aren’t in trade—beyond the midriff. Do you seriously come to me to ask what sort of novels to publish?”