“Ah, I’m glad of that. Not that you could really impose upon any one. There would be certain infallible signs in your manuscript that would betray you: an air of use; little private marks and memoranda of earlier readers; the smell of their different brands of tobacco and sachet powder.”
“I shouldn’t try to impose upon any one,” Ray began, with a flush of indignation, which ended in shame. “What would you do under the same circumstances?” he demanded, with desperation.
“My dear friend! My dear boy,” Mr. Kane protested. “I am not censuring you. It’s said that Bismarck found it an advantage to introduce truth even into diplomacy. He discovered there was nothing deceived like it; nobody believed him. Some successful advertisers have made it work in commercial affairs. You mustn’t expect me to say what I should do under the same circumstances; the circumstances couldn’t be the same. I am not the author of a manuscript novel with a potential public of tens of thousands. But you can imagine that as the proprietor of a volume of essays which has a certain sale—Mr. Brandreth used that fatal term in speaking of my book, I suppose?”
“No, I don’t remember that he did,” said Ray.
“He was kinder than I could have expected. It is the death-knell of hope to the devoted author when his publisher tells him that his book will always have a certain sale; he is expressing in a pitying euphemism of the trade that there is no longer any chance for it, no happy accident in the future, no fortuity; it is dead. As the author of a book with a certain sale, I feel myself exempt from saying what I should do in your place. But I’m very glad it hasn’t come to the ordeal with you. Let us hope you won’t be tempted. Let us hope that Messrs. Chapley & Co. will be equal to the golden opportunity offered them, and gradually—snatch it.”
Kane smiled, and Ray laughed out. He knew that he was being played upon, but he believed the touch was kindly, and even what he felt an occasional cold cynicism in it had the fascination that cynicism always has for the young when it does not pass from theory to conduct; when it does that, it shocks. He thought that Mr. Kane was something like Warrington in Pendennis, and again something like Coverdale in Blithedale Romance. He valued him for that; he was sure he had a history; and when he now rose, Ray said: “Oh, must you go?” with eager regret.
“Why, I had thought of asking you to come with me. I’m going for a walk in the Park, and I want to stop on the way for a moment to see an old friend of mine”—he hesitated, and then added—“a man whom I was once intimately associated with in some joint hopes we had for reconstructing the world. I think you will be interested in him, as a type, even if you don’t like him.”
Ray professed that he should be very much interested, and they went out together.
XIII.
The streets had that Sunday sense which is as unmistakable as their week-day effect. Their noises were subdued almost to a country quiet; as he crossed with his friend to the elevated station, Ray noted with a lifting heart the sparrows that chirped from the knots and streamers of red Virginia-creeper hanging here and there from a porch roof or over a bit of garden wall; overhead the blue air was full of the jargoning of the blended church bells.