"It was simply to fix their personalities in the public mind. If you've done a big, wise thing, the public won't take any notice of you unless you do some little, silly thing."
"I wish you'd tell the public this, old man," I said.
"The public don't give a darn," he returned grimly.
"Evidently they don't in this case. And I don't see why they should, if you ask me. Even suppose he had crossed the Atlantic, which he hasn't, for he fell into the sea—even suppose he had, what of it? Would his walking up Fifth Avenue in pink tights with an arum lily in his hand...."
But my friend was gone upstairs to his studio and my subtle sarcasm was lost. We look at this question of public performances from different angles. When we heard of a neighbour's son earning ten dollars every Saturday by going up in a balloon and descending in a parachute (very often alighting upon some embarrassingly private roof) Mac thought it very creditable of him and mighty poor pay. I contended that it was a good deal more than the job was worth, because it was worth exactly nothing. It was not worth doing. This, of course, laid me open on the flank. My friend suggested that this might be said of a good deal of literary work, and I admitted with a sigh that he was right. "There you are," said he, and we both laughed.
"Well," I said, at lunch, "I grant your premises. Why should this chap wish to fix his personality on the public mind?"
"Can't you see? To put his value up, of course."
"Doing ... why, of course, he's doing it for money. Who ever does anything in this infernal world except for money?"
"But since he failed—as he did, you remember—he hasn't any value to speak of."
Mac turned in despair to his wife.