of New York, that mighty capital of modernism which sucks the best
brains of an entire continent. For some time he wrote beneath his own
standard and with considerable success. Following the example of
several successful New York authors, he plunged into a hectic portrayal
of 'high' society, a set of people that makes one wonder as to the
exact meaning of the adjective. For a short space he came under the
influence of the studied Bohemianism of 'Greenwich Village,' and wrote
deucedly clever things for the applause of the villagers, then sneered
at American taste because people in Arkansas did not like his work.
Still retaining his love of Greenwichery, he next succumbed to the
money lure of the motion-picture industry, which offered to buy the
picture-rights of his stories, provided he would introduce into them
the elements which go to make up successful American films.

With the prospect of a bank president's income before him, he succeeded
in writing his share of that form of American literature which has a
certain love interest, almost obscured by a nasty sexual diagnosis, an
element of comedy relief, and, above all, a passionate adherence to the
craze of the moment--a work that fades from the mind with the closing
of the book, as the memory of the author's name vanishes almost before
the last sound of the earth dropped upon his coffin.

He knew that there were sincere _literati_ writing of the abiding
things that do not die with the passing of a season, but the clamour of
commercialism drowned their voices. As though they were stocks upon an
exchange, he heard the cries: 'Brown's getting five thousand dollars a
month writing serials for Hitch's;' 'Smith sold two novels on synopsis
for thirty thousand dollars;' 'Green's signed up with Tagwicks for four
years at two thousand dollars a month writing problem novels.' Into
the maelstrom of 'Dollars, Dollars, Dollars,' the sensitive brains of