couch. Durtal arranged the pillows and pulled back the coverlet, and the
cat jumped to the foot of the bed but remained humped up, tail coiled
beneath him, waiting till his master was stretched out at length before
burrowing a little hollow to curl up in.




CHAPTER II


Nearly two years ago Durtal had ceased to associate with men of letters.
They were represented in books and in the book-chat columns of magazines
as forming an aristocracy which had a monopoly on intelligence. Their
conversation, if one believed what one read, sparkled with effervescent
and stimulating wit. Durtal had difficulty accounting to himself for the
persistence of this illusion. His sad experience led him to believe that
every literary man belonged to one of two classes, the thoroughly
commercial or the utterly impossible.

The first consisted of writers spoiled by the public, and drained dry in
consequence, but "successful." Ravenous for notice they aped the ways of
the world of big business, delighted in gala dinners, gave formal
evening parties, spoke of copyrights, sales, and long run plays, and
made great display of wealth.

The second consisted of café loafers, "bohemians." Rolling on the
benches, gorged with beer they feigned an exaggerated modesty and at the
same time cried their wares, aired their genius, and abused their
betters.