He would have been less jubilant, could he have heard the muttered words of his protégé, after the latter had parted from his “pal.”
“I’ve got it right now,” said he. “Knighthood for Richard Swinton, or a divorce from his wife, with no end of damages! God bless the dear Fan, for playing so handsomely into my hand! God bless her?”
And with this infamy on his lips, the ci-devant guardsman flung himself into a hansom cab, and hastened home to Saint John’s Wood.
Chapter Seventy Two.
Wanted—A Master!
Having changed from soldier to author, Maynard was not idle in his new avocation.
Book after book came from his facile pen; each adding to the reputation achieved by his first essay in the field of literature:
A few of the younger spirits of the press—that few addicti curare verbis nullius magistri—at once boldly pronounced in their favour: calling them works of genius.