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and both hate it.'
    'Would literary work be less—burdensome?' said Marian, without
looking at him.
    'Rather more so, you think?'
    She hesitated.
    'It depends, of course, on—on several things.'
    'To be sure,' Jasper agreed. 'I don't think they have any marked
faculty for such work; but as they certainly haven't for teaching,
that doesn't matter. It's a question of learning a business. I am
going through my apprenticeship, and find it a long affair. Money
would shorten it, and, unfortunately, I have none.'
    'Yes,' said Marian, turning her eyes upon the stream, 'money is
a help in everything.'
    'Without it, one spends the best part of one's life in toiling
for that first foothold which money could at once purchase. To have
money is becoming of more and more importance in a literary career;
principally because to have money is to have friends. Year by year,
such influence grows of more account. A lucky man will still
occasionally succeed by dint of his own honest perseverance, but
the chances are dead against anyone who can't make private interest
with influential people; his work is simply overwhelmed by that of
the men who have better opportunities.'
    'Don't you think that, even to-day, really good work will sooner
or later be recognised?'
    'Later, rather than sooner; and very likely the man can't wait;
he starves in the meantime. You understand that I am not speaking
of genius; I mean marketable literary work. The quantity turned out
is so great that there's no hope for the special attention of the
public unless one can afford to advertise hugely. Take the instance
of a successful all-round man of letters; take Ralph Warbury, whose
name you'll see in the first magazine you happen to open. But
perhaps he is a friend of yours?'
    'Oh no!'
    'Well, I wasn't going to abuse him. I was only going to ask: Is
there any quality which distinguishes his work from that of twenty
struggling writers one could name? Of course not. He's a clever,
prolific man; so are they. But he began with money and friends; he
came from Oxford into the thick of advertised people; his name was
mentioned in print six times a week before he had written a dozen
articles. This kind of thing will become the rule. Men won't
succeed in literature that they may get into society, but will get
into society that they may succeed in literature.'
    'Yes, I know it is true,' said Marian, in a low voice.
    'There's a friend of mine who writes novels,' Jasper pursued.
'His books are not works of genius, but they are glaringly distinct
from the ordinary circulating novel. Well, after one or two
attempts, he made half a success; that is to say, the publishers
brought out a second edition of the book in a few months. There was
his opportunity. But he couldn't use it; he had no friends, because
he had no money. A book of half that merit, if written by a man in
the position of Warbury when he started, would have established the
reputation of a lifetime. His influential friends would have
referred to it in leaders, in magazine articles, in speeches, in
sermons. It would have run through numerous editions, and the
author would have had nothing to do but to write another book and
demand his price. But the novel I'm speaking of was practically
forgotten a year after its appearance; it was whelmed beneath the
flood of next season's literature.'
    Marian urged a hesitating objection.
    'But, under the circumstances, wasn't it in the author's power
to make friends? Was money really indispensable?'
    'Why, yes—because he chose to marry. As a bachelor he might
possibly have got into the right circles, though his character
would in any case have made it difficult for him to curry
favour.
    But as a married man, without means, the situation was hopeless.
Once married you must live up to the standard of the society you
frequent; you can't be entertained without entertaining in return.
Now if his wife had brought him only a couple of thousand pounds
all might have been well. I should have