years of literary endeavour. In that period he could certainly
determine whether or not it was his destiny to live by the pen.

In the meantime his relations with the secretary of the hospital,
Carter by name, had grown very friendly. When Reardon began to
publish books, the high-spirited Mr Carter looked upon him with
something of awe; and when the literary man ceased to be a clerk,
there was nothing to prevent association on equal terms between
him and his former employer. They continued to see a good deal of
each other, and Carter made Reardon acquainted with certain of
his friends, among whom was one John Yule, an easy-going,
selfish, semi-intellectual young man who had a place in a
Government office. The time of solitude had gone by for Reardon.
He began to develop the power that was in him.

Those two books of his were not of a kind to win popularity. They
dealt with no particular class of society (unless one makes a
distinct class of people who have brains), and they lacked local
colour. Their interest was almost purely psychological. It was
clear that the author had no faculty for constructing a story,
and that pictures of active life were not to be expected of him;
he could never appeal to the multitude. But strong
characterisation was within his scope, and an intellectual
fervour, appetising to a small section of refined readers, marked
all his best pages.

He was the kind of man who cannot struggle against adverse
conditions, but whom prosperity warms to the exercise of his
powers. Anything like the cares of responsibility would sooner or
later harass him into unproductiveness. That he should produce