Kitabı oku: «The Time of Roses», sayfa 13
CHAPTER XXXIV.
MAURICE REBELS
On the morning of the day when the guests were to depart Mrs. Aylmer, having spent a long and almost restless night, sent for Trevor to her room. He entered unwillingly. He had begun to dislike his tête-à-tête with Mrs. Aylmer very much.
"Now, my dear boy, just sit down and let us have a cosy chat," said the old lady.
Trevor stood near the open window.
"The day is so mild," he said, "that it is almost summer. Who would suppose that we were close to December?"
"I have not sent for you, Maurice, to talk of the weather. I have something much more important to say."
"And what is that?" he asked.
"You remember our last conversation in this room?"
He knitted his brows.
"I remember it," he answered.
"I want to carry it on now; we have come to the second chapter."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Our last conversation was introductory. Now the story opens. You have behaved very well, quite as well as I could have expected, during the time that Sharstons and Sir John Wallis have stayed here."
"I am glad you are pleased with my behaviour; but in reality I did not behave well: I mean according to your lights. I am just as much a rebel as ever."
"Maurice, my dear boy, try not to talk nonsense; try to look a little ahead. How old are you?"
"I shall be six-and-twenty early in the year."
"Quite a boy," said Mrs. Aylmer, in a slightly contemptuous voice. "In ten years you will be six-and-thirty, in twenty six-and-forty. In twenty years from now you will much rejoice over what – what may not be quite to your taste at the present moment, though why it should not be – Maurice, it is impossible, absolutely impossible, that you should not love that sweet and beautiful girl."
"Which girl do you mean?" said Trevor.
"Don't prevaricate; you know perfectly well to whom I allude."
"Miss Sharston? She is far too good, far too sweet to have her name bandied between us. I decline to discuss her."
"You must discuss her. You can do so with all possible respect. Kitty Sharston is to be your wife, Maurice."
"She will never be my wife," he replied. His tone was so firm, he stood so upright as he spoke, his eyes were fixed so sternly, that just for a moment Mrs. Aylmer recognised that she had met her match.
"You refuse to do what I wish?" she said then slowly, "I who have done all for you?"
"I refuse to do this. This is the final straw of all. No wealth is worth having at the price you offer. I will only marry the woman I love. I respect, I admire, I reverence Miss Sharston; but I do not love her, nor does she love me. It is sacrilege to talk of a marriage between us. If I offered she would refuse; it is not to be thought of; besides – "
"Why do you stop? Go on. It is just like your gratitude. How true are the poet's words: 'Sharper than serpent's tooth!' But what is your intention in the future?"
"Justice," he replied. "I cannot bear this. It troubles me more than I can say. If you will not reinstate the girl who ought to be your heiress in her right position, I at least will do what I can for her. I will offer her all I have."
"You! you!" Mrs. Aylmer now indeed turned pale. She rose from her seat and came a step nearer the young man.
"You are mad; you must be mad," she said. "What does this mean?"
"It means that I intend to propose for Florence Aylmer. Whether she will accept me or not God only knows, but I love her."
"You told me a short time ago that you were not her lover."
"I had not then looked into my own heart. Now I find that I care for no one else. Her image fills my mind day and night; I am unhappy about her – too unhappy to endure this state of things any longer."
"Do you think she will take you, a penniless man? Do you think you are a good match for her or for any girl?"
"That has nothing to do with it. If she loves me she will accept all that I can give her, and I can work for my living."
"I will not listen to another word of this. You have pained me inexpressibly."
"You gave me time to decide, and I have decided. If you will forgive Miss Aylmer whatever she happened to do to displease you, if you will make her joint heiress with me in your estates, then we will both serve you and love you most faithfully and most truly; but if you will not give her back her true position I at least will offer her all that a man can offer – his heart, his worship, and all the talent he possesses. I can work for my wife, and before God I shall be fifty times happier than in my present position."
Mrs. Aylmer pointed to the door.
"I will not speak to you any more," she said. "This is disastrous, disgraceful! Go! Leave my presence!"
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE ESSAY AROUSES CRITICISM
Thomas Franks was much relieved when, on the morning after her return to town, Florence sent him the paper which Bertha had written. Florence herself took the precaution to carefully copy it out. As she did so, she could scarcely read the words; there were burning spots on her cheeks, and her head ached terribly.
Having completed her task, she sent it off by post, and Tom Franks, in good time, received Bertha's work. He read it over at first with some slight trepidation, then with smiling eyes and a heart beating high with satisfaction. He took it immediately to his chief.
"Ah! this is all right," he said; "read it: you will be pleased. It quite fulfills the early promise."
Mr. Anderson did glance rapidly over Bertha's paper.
"Miss Florence Aylmer has done good work," he said, when he had finished reading her pungent and caustic words; "and yet – " A thoughtful expression crossed his face, he was silent for a moment, then he looked up at the young man, who was standing near.
"I doubt if in any way such a paper will help our new production," he said. "It is difficult for me to believe that any girl could write in what I will call so agnostic a spirit. There is a bitterness, a want of belief, an absence of all feeling in this production. I admit its cleverness; but I should be sorry to know much of the woman who has written it."
"I admire talent in any form," said Tom Franks; "it will be inserted, of course. People who want smart things will like it, I am sure. Believe me, you are mistaken; it will do good, not harm."
"It may do good from a financial point of view: doubtless it will," said Mr. Anderson; "but I wish the girl who has those great abilities would turn them to a higher form of expression. She might do great things then, and move the world in a right way."
"I grant you that the whole thing is pessimistic," said Franks; "but its cleverness redeems it. It will call attention, and the next story by Miss Aylmer which appears in the Argonaut will be more appreciated than her last."
"See that that story appears in the next number," said his chief to Franks, and the young man left the room.
Florence received in due time a proof of her paper for correction. There was little alteration, however, needed in Bertha's masterly essay; but Florence was now obliged to read it carefully, and her heart stood still once or twice as she read the expressions which she herself was supposed to have given birth to. She had just finished correcting the proofs when Edith Franks came into the room.
"I have just seen Tom," she said; "he is delighted with your essay. Is that it? Have you corrected it? May I look through it?"
"I would much rather you did not read it, Edith."
"What nonsense! It is to be published, and I shall see it then."
"Well, read it, if you must, when it is in the paper; only I would rather you didn't read it at all."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't like it."
"Why do you write what you don't like?" said Edith, fixing her sharp eyes on her new friend's face.
"One does all sorts of things perhaps without reason; one writes as one is impelled," said Florence.
Edith went up to her, and after a brief argument possessed herself of the long slip of proof she was holding in her hand.
"I am going to read it now," she said; "I always said you were neurotic: even your talents tend in that direction. Oh, good gracious! what an extraordinary opening sentence! You are a queer girl!"
Edith read on to the end. She then handed the paper back to Florence.
"What do you think of it?" said Florence, noticing that she was silent.
"I hate it."
"I thought you would. Oh. Edith, I am glad!"
"What do you mean by that?"
"Because I so cordially hate it too."
"I would not publish it if I were in your place," said Edith; "it may do harm. It is against the woman who is struggling so bravely. It turns her noblest feelings into ridicule. Why do you write such things, Florence?"
"One cannot help one's self; you know that," replied Florence.
"Rubbish! One can always help doing wrong. You have been queer all through. I cannot pretend to understand you. But there, as Tom admires it so much, I suppose it must go into the paper. Will you put it into an envelope, and I will post it?"
Florence did so. She directed the envelope to the editor, and Edith took it out with her.
As she was leaving the room, she turned to Florence and said: "Try and make your next thing more healthy. I hope to goodness very few people will read this; it is bad from first to last."
She ran downstairs. Just as she was about to drop the little packet into the pillar-box, she glanced at her watch.
"I shall have time to go and see Tom. I don't like this thing," she said to herself. "Miss Aylmer ought not to write what will do direct harm. The person who has written this paper might well not believe in any God. I don't like it. It ought not to be published. I will speak to Tom about it. Some of the worst passages might at least be altered or expunged."
Edith hailed a hansom, was taken Citywards, and found herself in her brother's own private room shortly before he was finishing for the day.
"Here is the work of your precious protégée," she said, flinging the manuscript on Tom's desk. He took it up.
"Has she corrected it? That's right; I want to send it to the printer. By the way, Edith, have you read it?"
"I grieve to say I have."
Tom Franks looked at her in a puzzled way.
"Why do you speak in that tone?"
"Because it is so horrible and so false, Tom. Why do you publish it?"
"You agree with Mr. Anderson; he doesn't like it either."
"Don't send it to the printers like that. Poor Florence must be a little mad. Cut out some of the passages. Give it to me, and I'll show you. This one, for instance, and this."
Tom Franks took the paper from her.
"It goes in entire, or it does not go in at all," he said; "its cleverness will carry the day. I must speak to Miss Aylmer. She must not give vent to her true feelings; in future, she must put a check on them."
"She must have a terrible mind," said Edith. "If I had known it, I don't think I could have made her my friend."
"Oh, don't give her up now," said Tom; "poor girl, she is to be pitied."
"Of course she is; great talent like hers often means a tendency to insanity. I must watch her; she is a curious and interesting study."
"She is monstrously clever," said Tom Franks; "I admire her very much."
Edith, feeling that she had done no good, left the office.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
A LETTER FROM HOME
In due time the first number of the new weekly paper appeared, and Florence's article was on the leading page. It created, as Tom Franks knew it would, a good deal of criticism. It met with a shower of abuse from one party, and warm notices, full of congratulation, from another. It certainly increased the sale of the paper and made people look eagerly forward to the next work of the rising star.
Florence, who would not glance at the paper once it had appeared, and who did her utmost to forget Bertha's work, tried to believe that she was happy. She had now really as much money as she needed to spend, and was able to send her mother cheques.
Mrs. Aylmer was in the seventh heaven of bliss. As to Sukey, she was perfectly sick of hearing of Miss Florence's talents and Miss Florence's success. Mrs. Aylmer the less thought it high time to write a congratulatory letter to her daughter.
"My dear Flo," she wrote, "you are the talk of the place. I never knew anything like it. I am invaded by visitors. I am leading quite a picnic life, hardly ever having a meal at home, and with your cheques I am able to dress myself properly. Sukey also enjoys the change. But why, my dear love, don't you send copies of that wonderful magazine, and that extraordinary review, to your loving mother? I have just suggested to a whole number of your admirers to meet me at this house on Wednesday next, when I propose to read aloud to them either your article in the General Review or one of your stories in the Argonaut. Do send me the copies, dear; I have failed hitherto to get them."
At this point in her letter Mrs. Aylmer broke off abruptly. There had come a great blot of ink on the paper, as if her pen had suddenly fallen from her hand. Later on the letter was continued, but in a different tone.
"Our clergyman, Mr. Walker, has just been to see me. What do you think he has come about? He brought your paper with him and read passages of it aloud. He said that it was my duty immediately to see you, and to do my utmost to get you into a better frame of mind.
"He says your style – I am quoting his exact words – and your sentiments are bitterly wrong, and will do a lot of mischief. My dear girl, what does this mean? Just when your poor, doting old mother was so full of bliss and so proud of you, to give her a knock-down blow of this sort! I must request you, my precious child, the next time you write for the General Review, to do a paper which will not cause such remarks as I have just listened to from the lips of our good clergyman. You might write, Florence, a nice little essay on the sins of ambition, or something of that sort – or what do you say to a paper on flowers, spring flowers? – I think that would be so sweet and poetic – or the sad sea waves? I really did not know that I had such a clever brain myself. You must have inherited your talent from me, darling. Now, do write a paper on the sad sea waves. I know I shall cry over it. I feel it beforehand. Don't forget, my love, the lessons your poor mother has tried to teach you. Mr. Walker spoke so severely that I almost thought I ought to return your nice cheque for five pounds; but on reflection, it seemed to me that that would do no good, and that I at least knew how to spend the money well. I told him I would give him ten shillings out of it for the missionary society. He seemed quite shocked. How narrow-minded some clergymen are! But there, Flo, don't forget that the next paper is to be on spring flowers or the sad sea waves. It will take like wildfire.
"Your Affectionate Mother."
This letter was received by Florence on the following morning. She was seated at her desk, carefully copying the last production sent to her by Bertha Keys. It was not an essay this time, but a story, and was couched in rather milder terms than her two previous stories. Florence thrust it into a drawer, read her mother's letter from end to end, and then, covering her face with her hands, sat for a long time motionless.
"I am successful; but it seems to me I am casting away my own soul," she said to herself. "I am not happy. I never thought, when I could supply mother with as much money as she needed, when my own affairs were going on so nicely, when my independence was so far secured, and when I was on a certain pinnacle of success, that I could feel as I do. But nothing gives me pleasure. Even last night, at that party which the Franks took me to, when people came up and congratulated me, I felt stupid and heavy. I could not answer when I was spoken to, nor carry on arguments. I felt like a fool, and I know I acted as one; and if Mr. Franks had not been so kind, I doubt not I should have openly disgraced myself. Oh, dear! the way of transgressors is very hard, and I hate Bertha more than words can say."
Florence was interrupted at this pause in her meditations by a tap at her door. She was now able to have two rooms at her command in Prince's Mansions, and Franks, who had come to see her, was ushered into a neatly-furnished but simple-looking sitting-room.
Florence rose to meet him.
"Are you well?" he said, staring at her.
"Why do you ask? I am perfectly well," she replied, in a tone of some annoyance.
"I beg your pardon; you look so black under the eyes. Do you work too hard at night?"
"I never work too hard, Mr. Franks; you are absolutely mistaken in me."
"I am glad to hear it. Is your next story ready?"
"I am finishing it."
"May I see it?"
"No, I cannot show it to you. You shall have it by to-morrow or next day at latest."
"Do you feel inclined to do some more essays for our paper?"
"I would rather not," said Florence.
"But why so?"
"You didn't like my last paper, you know."
"Oh, I admired it for its cleverness. I didn't care for the tone. It is unnecessary to give way to all one's feelings. When you have written more and oftener, you will have learned the art of suppression."
"I have just had a letter from mother," said Florence; "I will show you her postscript. You will see that, although she was proud of me, it was the pride of ignorance. This is what our clergyman, Mr. Walker, says, and he is right."
Franks read the few words of the postscript.
"I suppose he is right," he answered. He looked full at the girl and half-smiled.
"It would be extremely successful if you would do a paper in a totally different tone," he said; "could you not try?"
"I cannot give what is not in me."
"Well, have a good try. Choose your own subject. Let me have the very best you can. I must not stay any longer now. The story at least will reach me in good time?"
"Yes, and I think you will like it rather better than the last. Good-bye," said Florence.
He held her hand lingeringly for a moment, and looked into her face. As he went downstairs he thought a good deal about her. She interested him. If he married, he would as soon have clever and original Florence Aylmer for his wife as any other woman he had ever met.
He was just leaving the house when he came face to face with Trevor. Maurice was hurrying into the house as Franks was going out. The sub-editor of the Argonaut started when he saw Trevor.
"Hallo," he said, "who would have thought to see you here? How are you?"
"Quite well, thank you."
"I imagined you to be in the country safe with that kind old lady who is feathering your nest."
"I don't think that will come off, Franks; but I do not feel inclined to discuss it. I have come up to town to see Miss Aylmer. How is she?"
"Quite well, or, rather, no: I don't think she is very well. I have just seen her. What a wonderfully clever girl she is!"
"So it seems," said Trevor, in a somewhat impatient tone. "Is she in?"
"Yes; I have just come from her."
"Then I won't detain you now." Trevor ran upstairs, and Franks went quickly back to his office.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
TREVOR PROPOSES TO FLORENCE
Trevor's vigorous knock came upon Florence's door. She did not know why her heart leapt, nor why the colour came into her cheeks. She had been feeling indifferent to all the world a moment before. Now she was suddenly eager and full of interest.
She crossed the room and opened the door wide. When she saw Trevor she uttered an exclamation and her eyes shone.
"Is it possible that you have come?" she said. "How are you? Won't you come in?"
He took her hand.
"Yes, I have come," he answered. "Can you give me a little time, or are you too busy?"
"I am never busy," said Florence.
He looked at her in some surprise when she said that, but resolved to take no notice. He had quick eyes and a keen intuition, and he saw at a glance that Florence was uneasy and suffering, also that she was more or less indifferent to the life on which she had entered, which ought to have been so full of the keenest interest. She asked him to seat himself and took a chair near.
"How are they all at Aylmer's Court?" she asked.
"When I left yesterday morning they were well," he replied. "Did you know that your friend Miss Sharston was on a visit there?"
"Yes, I heard of it; Kitty wrote to me. Do you like Kitty, Mr. Trevor?"
"Of course I like her," he replied, and, remembering what was expected of him by Mrs. Aylmer with regard to Kitty, the bronze on his cheeks deepened.
Florence noticed the increase of colour, and her heart beat.
"I wonder if he does like her and if she likes him. I should not be surprised; I ought to be glad," she thought. But she knew very well that she was not glad, and she vaguely wondered why.
"I have come with a message from my mother," said Trevor, who was watching her while her eyes were travelling towards the fire. He was thinking how ill and worn she looked, and his heart was full of pity as well as love, but he would not speak yet. He must wait; he must be sure of her feelings before he committed himself.
"I have come with a message from my mother," he repeated. "I want you to come back with me now. You enjoyed your last day at the cottage: it was summer then. It is early winter now, but the heath is still beautiful. Shall we go together, and after lunch have a walk on the heath?"
"I am very sorry, but I cannot go," replied Florence. She looked longingly out of the window as she spoke. "No," she repeated; "I cannot."
"But why not? You say you are not busy."
"In one sense I am not busy; but I have some work to do."
"Some of your literary work?"
Florence nodded, but did not speak.
"I have to copy something," she said, after a pause; "I have to send it to the editor of the Argonaut; he is waiting."
"Do you know, I have only read one of your stories, the first which appeared in the Argonaut? It was clever."
"I wish it had been idiotic," replied Florence. "Everyone says to me: 'Your story is clever.' I hate that story."
"I am delighted to hear you say so. I did not admire it myself. Of course I saw that it was – "
"Don't say again that it was clever. I don't wish to hear anything about it. I cannot come with you to-day. I have to do some copying."
"Why do you say copying?"
"Because I always copy the manuscripts faithfully before Mr. Franks has them for the Argonaut. He is waiting, and I am a slow writer."
"Shall I copy the story for you?"
"Not for all the world," replied Florence, startled at her own vehemence.
Trevor rose, a look of annoyance on his face.
"I am sorry you should think of my offer of help in that spirit," he said; "you don't quite understand: perhaps some day I may be able to make things plain to you. I take a great, a very great interest in you. You have brought – "
"What?" said Florence.
"You have brought a great anxiety and trouble into my life, as well as a very great absorbing interest; but I can say no more now."
"If you will go away," said Florence, "I will begin to work. I have a headache, and am confused. Go away and come again, if you like. I shall be better the next time you come."
"Why won't you tell me what is troubling you?"
"How do you know anything troubles me?"
"How do I know?" said Trevor. "I have eyes – that is all: eyes and a certain amount of intuition," he added.
"I cannot go to-day," said Florence, who took no notice of his words, "but perhaps on Sunday I may go to see your mother. Will you be there then?"
"Yes: did you not hear? I have broken with Mrs. Aylmer."
"What?" said Florence. She forgot herself in her excitement. She came two or three steps forward; her hands were clasped tightly together.
"Yes; I cannot stand the life. Mrs. Aylmer is very kind to me, and means well; but so long as she is so cruel to you I cannot endure it. I have told her so, and I am going to earn my own living in the future. I am no longer a rich man – indeed, I am a very poor one; but I have brains and I think I have pluck, and some day I am certain I shall succeed."
Trevor held himself erect, and his eyes, full of suppressed fire, were fixed on Florence's face. He wanted her to say she was glad; he wanted to get a word of sympathy from her. On the contrary, she turned very white, and said, in a low, almost broken voice: "Oh, I am terribly sorry! Why have you done this?"
"You are sorry?"
"Yes, I am."
"I have done it for you. I cannot stand injustice."
"I could never under any circumstances accept Mrs. Aylmer's money," said Florence. "You do me no good, and yourself harm; and then your mother: she was so happy about you. Oh, do go back to Mrs. Aylmer; do tell her you didn't mean it. I know she must be very fond of you. It makes me so wretched, so overpoweringly wretched, to think you should have done this for me. Oh, do go back! She will be so glad to receive you. I know a little about her: I know she will receive you with rejoicing."
"Do you know what she wants me to do?" he said. He was very white now. He had thrown prudence to the winds.
"What?"
"You will not like it when I tell you; but you must at least exonerate me: I am obliged to be frank."
"Say what you please; I am willing to listen."
Trevor dropped once more into a chair.
"When I last saw her she made a proposal to me. It was not the first time; it was the second. She wanted me to marry – "
"I know," said Florence; "she wants you to marry Kitty. But why not? She is so sweet; she is the dearest girl in all the world."
"Hush!" said Trevor. "I do not love her, nor does she love me. I can scarcely bear to tell you all this. It is sacrilegious to think of marriage under such circumstances, and above all things to mention it in connection with a girl like Miss Sharston."
Florence found tears springing to her eyes.
"You are very good," she said, "too good, to sit here and talk to me. Of course, if you don't love Kitty, there is an end of it. Are you quite sure?"
"Positive. I know my own heart too well. I love another."
"Another?"
Florence had a wild fear for a moment that he was alluding to Bertha Keys. A desperate thought came into her brain.
"At any cost, I will open his eyes: I will tell him the truth," she thought.
Trevor had come nearer, and was bending forward and trying to take her hand.
"You are the one I love," he said. "How can I, who love you with all my heart and soul and strength, who would give my life for you, how can I think of anyone else? It does not matter whether you are the most amiable or the most unamiable woman in the world, Florence: you are the one woman on God's earth for me. Do you hear me, Florence; do you hear me? I love you; I have come to-day to tell you that I give my life to you. I put it into your hands. I didn't mean to speak, but the truth has been wrung from me. Do you hear me, Florence?"
Florence certainly did hear, but she did not speak. Trevor had taken her hand, and she did not withdraw it. She was stunned for a moment. The next instant there came over her, sweeping round her, entering her heart, filling her whole being, a delicious and marvellous ecstasy. The pain and the trouble vanished. The treachery, the deceit, and the fall she had undergone were forgotten. She only knew that, if Trevor loved her, she loved him. She was about to speak when her eyes fell for a moment on a page of the manuscript she had just written. Like a flash, memory came back.
It stung her cruelly as a serpent might sting. She sprang to her feet; she flung down his hand.
"You don't know whom you are talking to. If you knew me just as I am, you would unsay all those words; and, Mr. Trevor, you can never know me as I am, never, and I can never marry you."
"But do you love me? That is the point," said Trevor.
"I – do not ask me. No – if you must know. How can I love anybody? I am incapable of love. Oh, go, go! do go! I don't love you: of course I don't. Don't think of me again. I am not for you. Try and love Kitty, and make Mrs. Aylmer happy. Go; do leave me! I am unworthy of you, absolutely, utterly."
"But if I think differently?" said Trevor. He was very much troubled by her words; she spoke with such vehemence, and alluded to such extraordinary and to him impossible things, that he failed to understand her; then he said slowly: "You are stunned and surprised, but, darling, I am willing to wait, and my heart is yours. A man cannot take back his heart after he has given it, even though a woman does scorn it. But you won't be cruel to me; I cannot believe it, Florence. I will come again to-morrow and see you."
He turned without speaking to her again and left the room.
Florence never knew how she spent the rest of that day; but she had a dim memory afterwards that she worked harder during the succeeding hours than she had ever worked in her life before. Her brain was absolutely stimulated by what she had gone through, and she felt almost inclined to venture to write that Sunday-school paper which Tom Franks had so much desired.
She was to go out that evening with the Franks. She was now, although the London season had by no means begun, a little bit in request in certain literary circles; and Tom Franks, who had taken her in tow, was anxious to bring her as much forward as possible.
Edith and Tom were going to drive to a certain house in the suburbs where a literary lady, a Mrs. Simpson, a very fashionable woman, lived. Florence was to be the lioness of the evening, and Edith came in early from her medical work to apprise her of the fact.
"You had better wear that pretty black lace dress, and here are some crimson roses for you," she said. "I bought them at the florist's round the corner; they will suit you very well. But I wish you would not lose all your colour. You certainly look quite fagged out."
"On the contrary, I am not the least bit tired," said Florence. "I am glad I am going. I have finished the story for your brother and can post it first. I have had a hard day's work, Edith, and deserve a little bit of fun to-night."
"Now that I look at you, you don't seem as tired as usual," said Edith; "that is right. Tom was vexed last night. He says you work so hard that you are quite stupid in society. Try and allow people to draw you out. If you make even one or two of those pretty little epigrammatic speeches with which your writing is full, you will get yourself talked of more than ever. I presume, writing the sort of things you do, that you are going in for fame, and fame alone. Well, my dear, at least so live that you may obtain that for which you are selling yourself."
