'Nothing. I have tried the magazines, but as yet without
success.'

'But what do you write?'

'Chiefly essays on literary subjects.'

'I can understand that you would find a difficulty in disposing
of them. That kind of thing is supplied either by men of
established reputation, or by anonymous writers who have a
regular engagement on papers and magazines. Give me an example of
your topics.'

'I have written something lately about Tibullus.'

'Oh, dear! Oh, dear!--Forgive me, Mr Reardon; my feelings were
too much for me; those names have been my horror ever since I was
a schoolboy. Far be it from me to discourage you, if your line is
to be solid literary criticism; I will only mention, as a matter
of fact, that such work is indifferently paid and in very small
demand. It hasn't occurred to you to try your hand at fiction?'

In uttering the word he beamed; to him it meant a thousand or so
a year.

'I am afraid I have no talent for that.'

The novelist could do no more than grant his genial signature for
the specified purpose, and add good wishes in abundance. Reardon
went home with his brain in a whirl. He had had his first glimpse