, that inability does not call for unmingled disdain.
    It was very weak of Harold Biffen to come so near perishing of hunger as he
did in the days when he was completing his novel. But he would have vastly
preferred to eat and be satisfied had any method of obtaining food presented
itself to him. He did not starve for the pleasure of the thing, I assure you.
Pupils were difficult to get just now, and writing that he had sent to magazines
had returned upon his hands. He pawned such of his possessions as he could
spare, and he reduced his meals to the mimimum. Nor was he uncheerful in his
cold garret and with his empty stomach, for »Mr Bailey, Grocer,« drew steadily
to an end.
    He worked very slowly. The book would make perhaps two volumes of ordinary
novel size, but he had laboured over it for many months, patiently,
affectionately, scrupulously. Each sentence was as good as he could make it,
harmonious to the ear, with words of precious meaning skilfully set. Before
sitting down to a chapter he planned it minutely in his mind; then he wrote a
rough draft of it; then he elaborated the thing phrase by phrase. He had not
thought of whether such toil would be recompensed in coin of the realm; nay, it
was his conviction that, if with difficulty published, it could scarcely bring
him money. The work must be significant, that was all he cared for. And he had
no society of admiring friends to encourage him. Reardon understood the merit of
the workmanship, but frankly owned that the book was repulsive to him. To the
public it would be worse than repulsive - tedious, utterly uninteresting. No
matter; it drew to its end.
    The day of its completion was made memorable by an event decidedly more
exciting, even to the author.
    At eight o'clock in the evening there remained half a page to be written.
Biffen had already worked about nine hours, and on breaking off to appease his
hunger he doubted whether to finish to-night or to postpone the last lines till
to-morrow. The discovery that only a small crust of bread lay in the cupboard
decided him to write no more; he would have to go out to purchase a loaf, and
that was disturbance.
    But stay; had he enough money? He searched his pockets. Two pence and two
farthings; no more.
    You are probably not aware that at bakers' shops in the poor quarters the
price of the half-quartern loaf varies sometimes from week to week. At present,
