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Chapter 7

           Supposethatadesperatelypoormancomesoutwithabookatthesametimeasyoudo,hewillhavescarcelytheghostofachanceagainstyou.Hewillnotbeabletoadvertizeinyourlavishstyle—norwillheseehiswaytodinethecriticsasyoucan.Andifheshouldhappentohavemoregeniusthanyou,andyousucceed,yoursuccesswillnotbelegitimate.Butafterall,thatdoesnotmattermuch—inArt,ifinnothingelse,thingsalwaysrightthemselves."

           Imadenoimmediatereply,butwentovertomytable,rolledupmycorrectedproofsanddirectedthemtotheprinters—thenringingthebellIgavethepackettomyman,Morris,biddinghimpostitatonce.Thisdone,IturnedagaintowardsLucioandsawthathestillsatbythefire,butthathisattitudewasnowoneofbroodingmelancholy,andthathehadcoveredhiseyeswithonehandonwhichtheglowfromtheflamesshonered.IregrettedthemomentaryirritationIhadfeltagainsthimfortellingmeunwelcometruths—andItouchedhimlightlyontheshoulder.

           "AreyouinthedumpsnowLucio?"Isaid—"I’mafraidmydepressionhasprovedinfectious."

           Hemovedhishandandlookedup—hiseyeswerelargeandlustrousastheeyesofabeautifulwoman.

           "Iwasthinking,"hesaid,withaslightsigh—"ofthelastwordsIutteredjustnow—thingsalwaysrightthemselves.Curiouslyenoughinarttheyalwaysdo—nocharlatanismorshamlastswiththegodsofParnassus.Butinothermattersitisdifferent.

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