"Every book?"

"Practically, yes. Most books contain some latent support of a fashion
in clothes or food or drink, or of some pleasant spot or phase of
benevolence or vice, all of which form the interest of one or other of
the sections of society, which sections require publicity at all costs
for their respective interests."

I was about to probe searchingly into so optimistic a view of modern
authorship, but he stalled me off by proceeding rapidly with his
discourse.

"Apart, however, from the less obvious modes of advertising, you'll
agree that this is the age of all ages for the man who can write puffs.
'Good wine needs no bush' has become a trade paradox, 'Judge by
appearances,' a commercial platitude. The man who is ambitious and
industrious turns his trick of writing into purely literary channels,
and becomes a novelist. The man who is not ambitious and not
industrious, and who does not relish the prospect of becoming a loafer
in Strand wine-shops, writes advertisements. The gold-bearing area is
always growing. It's a Tom Tiddler's ground. It is simply a question of
picking up the gold and silver. The industrious man picks up as much as
he wants. Personally, I am easily content. An occasional nugget
satisfies me. Here's tonight's nugget, for instance."

I took the paper he handed to me. It bore the words:

CAUGHT IN THE ACT

CAUGHT IN THE ACT of drinking Skeffington's Sloe Gin, a man will