"I laughed at it myself," replied John. "I had another reason for laughing than the one they knew, though. For, really, I am so sure of my little book that I might have accepted the offer—if I had the money."
"Would it cost a great sum?" inquired Phyllis.
"Something less than fifty pounds for the first edition; a small edition. If there were a second, of course, they would pay the charges, but I should get nothing."
Phyllis sat sewing thoughtfully. Suddenly John saw that her eyes were filled with tears.
"If there weren't me to think of, you might—" she began.
John had her in his arms in the big chair in less time than it takes to tell it. When her troubled heart was comforted, he returned to his desk.
"However, I have been the rounds of the publishers now. I started with the best and I have seen them all. I have condescended to the smallest. I have even tried the Populars. But it has all been of no use. Same story everywhere. 'Marked ability, but we regret.'"
"If you had friends with influence——" Phyllis began, but John interrupted her.
"I wouldn't if I could, and I haven't if I would," said he. "But the fact is there's less of that than you think. 'Pull' isn't required; I can say that even when I am at the end of my rope. Books are published honestly, on their quality; mine simply hasn't the quality the public likes. It may be Art—but will it sell? That's the question."
Having plumbed the depths, John took up his pen again; his chin resolute as ever.