'And Mr Alf my particular friend! It does seem so hard,' said Lady Carbury, wiping hot tears from her cheeks.
'It won't do us the least harm, Lady Carbury.'
'It'll stop the sale?'
'Not much. A book of that sort couldn't hope to go on very long, you know. The "Breakfast Table" gave it an excellent lift, and came just at the right time. I rather like the notice in the "Pulpit," myself.'
'Like it!' said Lady Carbury, still suffering in every fibre of her self-love from the soreness produced by those Juggernaut's car-wheels.
'Anything is better than indifference, Lady Carbury. A great many people remember simply that the book has been noticed, but carry away nothing as to the purport of the review. It's a very good advertisement.'
'But to be told that I have got to learn the A B C of history after working as I have worked!'
'That's a mere form of speech, Lady Carbury.'
'You think the book has done pretty well?'
'Pretty well;--just about what we hoped, you know.'
'There'll be something coming to me, Mr Leadham?'
Mr Leadham sent for a ledger, and turned over a few pages and ran up a few figures, and then scratched his head. There would be something, but Lady Carbury was not to imagine that it could be very much. It did not often happen that a great deal could be made by a first book. Nevertheless, Lady Carbury, when she left the publisher's shop, did carry a cheque with her. She was smartly dressed and looked very well, and had smiled on Mr Leadham. Mr Leadham, too, was no more than man, and had written--a small cheque.
Mr Alf certainly had behaved badly to her; but both Mr Broune, of the 'Breakfast Table' and Mr Booker of the 'Literary Chronicle' had been true to her interests. Lady Carbury had, as she promised, 'done' Mr Booker's 'New Tale of a Tub' in the 'Breakfast Table.' That is, she had been allowed, as a reward for looking into Mr Broune's eyes, and laying her soft hand on Mr Broune's sleeve, and suggesting to Mr Broune that no one understood her so well as he did, to bedaub Mr Booker's very thoughtful book in a very thoughtless fashion,--and to be paid for her work. What had been said about his work in the 'Breakfast Table' had been very distasteful to poor Mr Booker. It grieved his inner contemplative intelligence that such rubbish should be thrown upon him; but in his outside experience of life he knew that even the rubbish was valuable, and that he must pay for it in the manner to which he had unfortunately become accustomed. So Mr Booker himself wrote the article on the 'Criminal Queens' in the 'Literary Chronicle,' knowing that what he wrote would also be rubbish. 'Remarkable vivacity.' 'Power of delineating character.' 'Excellent choice of subject.' 'Considerable intimacy with the historical details of various periods.' 'The literary world would be sure to hear of Lady Carbury again.' The composition of the review, together with the reading of the book, consumed altogether perhaps an hour of Mr Booker's time. He made no attempt to cut the pages, but here and there read those that were open. He had done this kind of thing so often, that he knew well what he was about. He could have reviewed such a book when he was three parts asleep. When the work was done he threw down his pen and uttered a deep sigh. He felt it to be hard upon him that he should be compelled, by the exigencies of his position, to descend so low in literature; but it did not occur to him to reflect that in fact he was not compelled, and that he was quite at liberty to break stones, or to starve honestly, if no other honest mode of carrying on his career was open to him. 'If I didn't, somebody else would,' he said to himself.