 all. »The Shame of the Sun« had been the cause of his
success more than the stuff he had written. That stuff had been merely
incidental. It had been rejected right and left by the magazines. The
publication of »The Shame of the Sun« had started a controversy and precipitated
the landslide in his favor. Had there been no »Shame of the Sun« there would
have been no landslide, and had there been no miracle in the go of »The Shame of
the Sun« there would have been no landslide. Singletree, Darnley &amp; Co.
attested that miracle. They had brought out a first edition of fifteen hundred
copies and been dubious of selling it. They were experienced publishers and no
one had been more astounded than they at the success which had followed. To them
it had been in truth a miracle. They never got over it, and every letter they
wrote him reflected their reverent awe of that first mysterious happening. They
did not attempt to explain it. There was no explaining it. It had happened. In
the face of all experience to the contrary, it had happened.
    So it was, reasoning thus, that Martin questioned the validity of his
popularity. It was the bourgeoisie that bought his books and poured its gold
into his money-sack, and from what little he knew of the bourgeoisie it was not
clear to him how it could possibly appreciate or comprehend what he had written.
His intrinsic beauty and power meant nothing to the hundreds of thousands who
were acclaiming him and buying his books. He was the fad of the hour, the
adventurer who had stormed Parnassus while the gods nodded. The hundreds of
thousands read him and acclaimed him with the same brute non-understanding with
which they had flung themselves on Brissenden's »Ephemera« and torn it to pieces
- a wolf-rabble that fawned on him instead of fanging him. Fawn or fang, it was
all a matter of chance. One thing he knew with absolute certitude: »Ephemera«
was infinitely greater than anything he had done. It was infinitely greater than
anything he had in him. It was a poem of centuries. Then the tribute the mob
paid him was a sorry tribute indeed, for that same mob had wallowed »Ephemera«
into the mire. He sighed heavily and with satisfaction. He was glad the last
manuscript was sold and that he would soon be done with it all.
 

                                  Chapter XLIV

Mr. Morse met Martin in the office of the Hotel Metropole. Whether he had
happened there just casually, intent on other affairs, or whether he
