The rest of the list was made up of members of the Barrel Club (impossible because of their inherent tendency to break out into personal paragraphs); writers like Fermin and Gresham, above me on the literary ladder, and consequently unapproachable in a matter of this kind; certain college friends, who had vanished into space, as men do on coming down from the ’Varsity, leaving no address; John Hatton, Sidney Price, and Tom Blake.
There were only three men in that list to whom I felt I could take my suggestion. Hatton was one, Price was another, and Blake was the third. Hatton should have my fiction, Price my Society stuff, Blake my serious verse.
That evening I went off to the Temple to sound Hatton on the subject of signing my third book. The wretched sale of my first two had acted as something of a check to my enthusiasm for novel-writing. I had paused to take stock of my position. My first two novels had, I found on re-reading them, too much of the ’Varsity tone in them to be popular. That is the mistake a man falls into through being at Cambridge or Oxford. He fancies unconsciously that the world is peopled with undergraduates. He forgets that what appeals to an undergraduate public may be Greek to the outside reader and, unfortunately, not compulsory Greek. The reviewers had dealt kindly with my two books (“this pleasant little squib,” “full of quiet humour,” “should amuse all who remember their undergraduate days”); but the great heart of the public had remained untouched, as had the great purse of the public. I had determined to adopt a different style. And now my third book was ready. It was called, When It Was Lurid, with the sub-title, A Tale of God and Allah. There was a piquant admixture of love, religion, and Eastern scenery which seemed to point to a record number of editions.
I took the type-script of this book with me to the Temple.
Hatton was in. I flung When It Was Lurid on the table, and sat down.
“What’s this?” inquired Hatton, fingering the brown-paper parcel. “If it’s the corpse of a murdered editor, I think it’s only fair to let you know that I have a prejudice against having my rooms used as a cemetery. Go and throw him into the river.”
“It’s anything but a corpse. It’s the most lively bit of writing ever done. There’s enough fire in that book to singe your tablecloth.”
“You aren’t going to read it to me out loud?” he said anxiously.
“No.”
“Have I got to read it when you’re gone?”