"I can assure you of at least one appreciative reader who rejoiced when the Leader took on the literary touch you have given it. It is said that people get the kind of journalism they are fitted for; but for my part, I believe that the colourless writing of most provincial papers is the result of lack of taste in the journalists themselves. You don't find, for instance, that the more literary Leader is less popular than the bald and tasteless production it used to be?"
"On the contrary, I am told it is doing better," Henry replied, with a touch of self-satisfaction which might have been modified if he had inquired more closely into the cause of the increased circulation.
A series of local tragedies, and a heated controversy on the licensing question, had probably more to do with the result than all the editor's literary taste.
"You have a book here, I notice," continued Mr. Puddephatt, singling out the novel Henry had been reading, and had laid down, with the paper-knife between its pages near to the end, "in which I am not a little interested. The critics have been denouncing it so heartily that the publisher has difficulty in keeping pace with the demand."
"I'm sorry to hear it, for I mean to slate it too, and it is small consolation if that only helps to sell the thing."
Henry turned to the table and picked up the red cloth volume. It was entitled "Ashes," the name of the writer being Adrian Grant. The eyes of his guest followed his movements, and studied his face with unusual sharpness. He made a barely concealed effort to appear only languidly interested when the editor proceeded to denounce the work in good set terms.
"I certainly shall do myself the pleasure of 'letting myself go' when I sit down to give Adrian Grant my opinion of his book."
Henry had entered fully into that most delusive joy of journalism which spurs the young, raw writer on when he imagines he has some unpalatable truths to deliver. But in this case there was a worthier impulse than the common delight of attacking an author in print. Despite the influences that seemed to have been undermining the simple religious faith Henry had brought away from his native village, there still remained in him a strong abhorrence of that paganish cynicism which, expressed in fiction, tends to drag the mind into the sunless dungeons of thought and away from the glorious light of Christian truth. This book, "Ashes," was precisely of that type. Under the guise of a story pretending to reflect the manners of the time, it discussed problems which were in no sense representative of the varied whole of life, and the discussion of which appealed mainly to the morbid taste of readers who cared not a jot for art.
"I shall be most interested to read your review," said Mr. P.; "and might I steal a march on your other readers by asking what impression 'Ashes' has made on you?"
"I can best describe it by saying it leaves a nasty taste in the mouth—clever, but not nice."