Kane looked at him compassionately. “Heaven forbid! I could repeat them, I dare say, as accurately as you; the opinions of readers do not vary much, and I have had many novels declined.”
“Have you?” Ray faltered with compunction for his arrogation of all such suffering to himself.
“Yes. That was one reason why I began to write Hard Sayings. But if you will let me offer you another leaf from my experience, I will suggest that there are many chances for reprieve and even pardon after the readers have condemned your novel. I once had a novel accepted—the only novel I ever had accepted—after all the publisher’s readers had pronounced against it.”
“Had you?” Ray came tremulously back at him.
“Yes,” sighed Kane. “That is why Chapley is so fond of me; he has forgiven me a deadly injury.” He paused to let his words carry Ray down again, and then he asked, with a nod toward the bed where the young fellow had flung his manuscript and the readers’ opinions, “Might I?”
“Oh, certainly,” said Ray from his depths; and Kane took up the opinions and began to run them over.
“Yes, they have a strangely familiar effect; they are like echoes from my own past.” He laid them down again. “Do you think they are right?”
“Yes. Perfectly! That is”—
“Oh! That is. There is hope, I see.”
“How, hope?” Ray retorted. “Does my differing with them make any difference as to the outcome?”