"Why not?" her husband inquired.
"He's an Octopus man, with his tentacles waving in every direction. And his mind is like a big room handsomely furnished, but without a fireplace in it. Certainly—he's been sweet as Hybla honey to me, and I ought to like him, but I don't."
CHAPTER XXVIII
A SUNDAY IN CADOGAN PLACE
In late October, when pages fall as thickly from printing-presses as leaves do from trees, Shall the Strong retain the Spoil? appeared. During the preceding Spring many of the best publishers had withheld books which were now offered to the public. Conquest predicted a glutted market, and no sales for wares bearing obscure brands. Mark, he said, might compass a succès d'estime—nothing more. He added that the time had come to pull strings, if strings were to be pulled.
"I don't quite understand," said Mark.
"Get so-and-so," he named a popular author, "to enlighten you. Look here, Samphire, you're a man of good family, your people know numbers of swells, that brother of yours is hand in glove with some bigwigs. Stir 'em up with a long pole. I don't suppose you care to fork out for such advertising as our friend I mentioned uses. Paragraphs and all that."
"He pays for paragraphs?"
"Directly and indirectly—you innocent! I see you are disgusted. That's all right. I mentioned the matter, because I could steer you a bit, if you wished to spend say—fifty pounds. We shall advertise the book, of course, in the regular way. It's the irregular way, my boy, which brings in the dollars."
"The book must sell on its merits," said Mark.