“Be under no illusion,” I observed as Chairman, “with reference to our recent success. It is not, as you might imagine, the turn of the tide. There are three reasons why this particular article was accepted: First, it was snappy and up-to-date; second, it compared Manhattan and Modern Babylon in a way favourable to the former; third, and chief reason, the editor happened to have some very good cuts that he could work in to make an attractive spread. Given these inducements, and a temporary lack of more exciting matter, any offering can dispense with such a detail as literary merit.”
Here I regarded some jottings I had made on an envelope.
“Let us now see how we stand. We started with twelve manuscripts, of which we have sold four. There remain five more articles, and three fairy stories. The articles I regard as time wasted. People won’t read straight descriptive stuff; even in novels one has to sneak it in.”
Here the Secretary regarded ruefully some manuscripts rather the worse for postal transit.
“Go on wasting stamps on them if you like,” I continued; “but, candidly, they’re the wrong thing. As for the fairy stories, where are they now?”
“I have sent them to the Pickadeely Magazine.”
“They might have some chance there. The editor devotes a certain space to children that aren’t grown up. Now as to funds.”
The Secretary sat down, and the Treasurer rose in her place. She stated that there were five hundred francs in the treasury, of which a hundred would be needed to pay the rent up to the end of September. Two hundred francs would have to be allowed for current expenses; that would leave a hundred for contingencies.
“Very good,” I said; “I move that the money be expended as suggested. And now—two blissful months of freedom from worry in which to re-write my novel. Thank Heaven!”
With that I plunged into my work as strenuously as before. I must confess I re-read it with a tremor. It was bad, but—not too bad. Unconsciously I had reverted to my yarn-spinning style, yet often in the white heat of inspiration I had hit on the master-word just as surely as if I had pondered half a day. However, the result as a whole I regarded with disfavour. The work was lacking in distinction, in reserve, in the fine art of understatement. Instead of keeping my story well in hand I had let it gallop away with me. Truly I was incorrigible.