"Minded what, Soames?"

"Neglect. Failure."

"FAILURE?" I said heartily. "Failure?" I repeated vaguely.
"Neglect--yes, perhaps; but that's quite another matter. Of course you
haven't been--appreciated. But what, then? Any artist who--who gives--" What I wanted to say was,
"Any artist who gives truly new and great
things to the world has always to wait long for recognition"; but the
flattery would not out: in the face of his misery--a misery so
genuine and so unmasked-- my lips would not say the words.

And then he said them for me. I flushed. "That's what you were
going to say, isn't it?" he asked.

"How did you know?"

"It's what you said to me three years ago, when 'Fungoids' was
published." I flushed the more. I need not have flushed at all. "It's the
only important thing I ever heard you say," he continued. "And I've
never forgotten it. It's a true thing. It's a horrible truth. But--d'you
remember what I answered? I said, 'I don't care a sou for recognition.'
And you believed me. You've gone on believing I'm above that sort of
thing. You're shallow. What should YOU know of the feelings of
a man like me? You imagine that a great artist's faith in himself and in
the verdict of posterity is enough to keep him happy. You've never
guessed at the bitterness and loneliness, the"--his voice broke; but
presently he resumed, speaking with a force that I had never known in
him. "Posterity! What use is it to ME? A dead man doesn't know
that people are visiting his grave, visiting his birthplace, putting up