This apparently did not convey any very luminous idea to Mr. Gage’s mind, and he asked after a moment, “What kind of things does he write?”
“Oh, stories, sketches, poems, reviews, essays—almost anything, in fact.”
The light left his face, and I perceived that I had carried my revenge too far, at least for Kendricks’s advantage, and I determined to take a new departure at the first chance. The chance did not come immediately.
“And can a man support a wife by that kind of writing?” asked Mr. Gage.
I laughed uneasily. “Some people do. It depends upon how much of it he can sell. It depends upon how handsomely a wife wishes to be supported. The result isn’t usually beyond the dreams of avarice,” I said, with a desperate levity.
“Excuse me,” returned the little man. “Do you live in that way? By your writings?”
“No,” I said with some state, which I tried to subdue; “I am the editor of Every Other Week, and part owner. Mr. Kendricks is merely a contributor.”
“Ah,” he breathed again. “And if he were successful in selling his writings, how much would he probably make in a year?”
“In a year?” I repeated, to gain time. “Mr. Kendricks is comparatively a beginner. Say fifteen hundred—two thousand—twenty-five hundred.”
“And that would not go very far in New York.”