the market"; that satisfies them. And perhaps they are justified.

I can't pretend that I rule my life by absolute ideals; I admit
that everything is relative. There is no such thing as goodness
or badness, in the absolute sense, of course. Perhaps I am
absurdly inconsistent when--though knowing my work can't be first
rate--I strive to make it as good as possible. I don't say this
in irony, Amy; I really mean it. It may very well be that I am
just as foolish as the people I ridicule for moral and religious
superstition. This habit of mine is superstitious. How well I can
imagine the answer of some popular novelist if he heard me speak
scornfully of his books. "My dear fellow," he might say, "do you
suppose I am not aware that my books are rubbish? I know it just
as well as you do. But my vocation is to live comfortably. I have
a luxurious house, a wife and children who are happy and grateful
to me for their happiness. If you choose to live in a garret,
and, what's worse, make your wife and children share it with you,
that's your concern." The man would be abundantly right.'

'But,' said Amy, 'why should you assume that his books are
rubbish? Good work succeeds--now and then.'

'I speak of the common kind of success, which is never due to
literary merit. And if I speak bitterly, well, I am suffering
from my powerlessness. I am a failure, my poor girl, and it isn't
easy for me to look with charity on the success of men who
deserved it far less than I did, when I was still able to work.'

'Of course, Edwin, if you make up your mind that you are a
failure, you will end by being so. But I'm convinced there's no