novelist's first duty is to tell a story.« »Mr Biffen,« wrote another, »seems
not to understand that a work of art must before everything else afford
amusement.« »A pretentious book of the genre ennuyant,« was the brief comment of
a Society journal. A weekly of high standing began its short notice in a rage:
»Here is another of those intolerable productions for which we are indebted to
the spirit of grovelling realism. This author, let it be said, is never
offensive, but then one must go on to describe his work by a succession of
negatives; it is never interesting, never profitable, never -« and the rest. The
eulogy in The West End had a few timid echoes. That in The Current would have
secured more imitators, but unfortunately it appeared when most of the reviewing
had already been done. And, as Jasper truly said, only a concurrence of powerful
testimonials could have compelled any number of people to affect an interest in
this book. »The first duty of a novelist is to tell a story:« the perpetual
repetition of this phrase is a warning to all men who propose drawing from the
life. Biffen only offered a slice of biography, and it was found to lack
flavour.
    He wrote to Mrs Reardon: »I cannot thank you enough for this very kind
letter about my book; I value it more than I should the praises of all the
reviewers in existence. You have understood my aim. Few people will do that, and
very few indeed could express it with such clear conciseness.«
    If Amy had but contented herself with a civil acknowledgment of the volumes
he sent her! She thought it a kindness to write to him so appreciatively, to
exaggerate her approval. The poor fellow was so lonely. Yes, but his loneliness
only became intolerable when a beautiful woman had smiled upon him, and so
forced him to dream perpetually of that supreme joy of life which to him was
forbidden.
    It was a fatal day, that on which Amy put herself under his guidance to
visit Reardon's poor room at Islington. In the old times, Harold had been wont
to regard his friend's wife as the perfect woman; seldom in his life had he
enjoyed female society, and when he first met Amy it was years since he had
spoken with any woman above the rank of a lodging-house keeper or a
needle-plier. Her beauty seemed to him of a very high order, and her mental
endowments filled him with an exquisite delight, not to be appreciated by men