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what’s wrong with the man anyway? Here he makes a discovery like this—an astounding statement of this sort—and shows no more enthusiasm than if he were discussing a cabbage head!)—but, see here, then! You—you mean there’s something wrong with it?”
    “No, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. I think it is a magnificent piece of writing.”
    “But—(Good Lord, the fellow is a queer fish!)—but you mean to say that—that perhaps it’s not suitable for publication in its present form?”
    “No. I think it’s eminently publishable.”
    “But it’s overwritten, isn’t it?”
    “It is overwritten. Yes.”
    “I thought so, too,” said the editor shrewdly. “Of course, the fellow shows he knows very little about writing. He doesn’t know how he does it, he repeats himself continually, he is childish and exuberant and extravagant, and he does ten times too much of everything.. We have a hundred other writers who know more about writing than he does.”
    “I suppose we have, yes,” Hauser agreed. “Nevertheless, he is a man of genius, and they are not. His, book is a work of genius, and theirs are not.”
    “Then you think we ought to publish him?”
    “I think so, yes.”
    “But—(Ah, here’s the catch, maybe—the thing he’s holding back on!)—but you think this is all he has to say?—that he’s written himself out in this one book?—that he’ll never be able to write another?”
    “No. I think nothing of the sort. I can’t say, of course. They may kill him, as they often do----”
    “(God, what a gloomy Gus the fellow is!)”
    “—but on the basis of this book, I should say there’s no danger of his running dry. He should have fifty books in him.”
    “But—(Good Lord! What is the catch?)—but then you mean you don’t think it’s time for such a book as this in America yet?”
    “No, I don’t mean that. I think it is time.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it has happened. Iris always time when it happens.”
    “But some of our best critics say it’s not time.”
    “I know they do. However, they are wrong. It is simply not their time, that’s all.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “I mean, their time is critic’s time. The book is creator’s time. The two times are not the same.”
    “You think, then, that the critics are behind the time?”
    “They are behind creator’s time, yes.”
    “Then they may not see this book as the work of genius which you say it is. Do you think they will?”
    “I can’t say. Perhaps not. However, it doesn’t matter.”
    “Doesn’t matter! Why, what do you mean?”
    “I mean that the thing is good, and cannot be destroyed. Therefore it doesn’t matter what anyone says.”
    “Then—Good Lord, Hauser!—if what you say is true, we’ve made a great discovery!”
    “I think you have. Yes.”
    “But—but—is that all you have to say?”
    “I think so, yes. What else is there to say?”
    Baffled: “Nothing—only, I should think you would be excited about it!” Then, completely defeated and resigned: “Oh, all right! All right, Hauser! Thanks very much!”
    The people at Rodney’s couldn’t understand it. They didn’t know what to make of it. Finally, they had given up trying, all except Fox Edwards—and Fox would never give up trying to understand anything. Fox still came by Hauser’s office—his little cell—and looked in on him. Fox’s old grey hat would be pushed back on his head, for he never took it off when he worked, and there would be a look of troubled wonder in his sea-pale eyes as he bent over and stooped and craned and stared at Hauser, as if he were regarding for the first time some fantastic monster from the marine jungles of the ocean. Then he would turn and walk away, hands hanging to his coat lapels, and in his eyes there would be a look of utter astonishment.
    Fox couldn’t understand it yet. As for Hauser himself, he had no answers, nothing to tell them.
    It was not until George Webber had become