"Make the fellow nice," is his advice. "Let every woman reader
picture him to herself as her particular man. Then everything he
says and does becomes of importance to her. She is careful not to
miss a word."

For the same reason he sees to it that his heroine has a bit of every
girl in her. Generally speaking, she is a cross between Romola and
Dora Copperfield. His novels command enormous sales. The women say
he draws a man to the life, but does not seem to know much about
women. The men like his women, but think his men stupid.

Of another famous author no woman of my acquaintance is able to speak
too highly. They tell me his knowledge of their sex is simply
marvellous, his insight, his understanding of them almost uncanny.
Thinking it might prove useful, I made an exhaustive study of his
books. I noticed that his women were without exception brilliant
charming creatures possessed of the wit of a Lady Wortlay Montagu,
combined with the wisdom of a George Eliot. They were not all of
them good women, but all of them were clever and all of them were
fascinating. I came to the conclusion that his lady critics were
correct: he did understand women. But to return to our synopsis.

The second chapter, it appeared, transported us to Yorkshire where:
"Basil Longleat, a typical young Englishman, lately home from
college, resides with his widowed mother and two sisters. They are a
delightful family."

What a world of trouble to both writer and to reader is here saved.
"A typical young Englishman!" The author probably wrote five pages,
elaborating. The five words of the sub-editor present him to me more