her book, and of advertising up her name, &c., &c., &c., will be very
great--so great, indeed, that you cannot undertake it, unless, indeed,
she agrees to let you have the first offer of everything she writes for
five years to come, at somewhere about a fourth of the usual rate of a
successful author's pay--though, of course, you don't tell her that. You
take advantage of her inexperience to bind her by this iniquitous
contract, knowing that the end of it will be that you will advance her a
little money and get her into your power, and then will send her down
there to the Hutches, where all the spirit and originality and genius
will be crushed out of her work, and she will become a hat-writer like
the rest of them--for Meeson's is a strictly commercial undertaking, you
know, and Meeson's public don't like genius, they like their literature
dull and holy!--and it's an infernal shame! that's what it is, uncle!"
and the young man, whose blue eyes were by this time flashing fire, for
he had worked himself up as he went along, brought his fist down with a
bang upon the writing table by way of emphasising his words.

"Have you done?" said his uncle.

"Yes, I've done; and I hope that I have put it plain."

"Very well; and now might I ask you, supposing that you should ever come
to manage this business, if your sentiments accurately represent the
system upon which you would proceed?"

"Of course they do. I am not going to turn cheat for anybody."

"Thank you. They seem to have taught you the art of plain speaking up at
Oxford--though, it appears," with a sneer, "they taught you very little
else. Well, then, now it is my turn to speak; and I tell you what it is,