Reardon can't do
that kind of thing, he's behind his age; he sells a manuscript as
if he lived in Sam Johnson's Grub Street. But our Grub Street of
to-day is quite a different place: it is supplied with
telegraphic communication, it knows what literary fare is in
demand in every part of the world, its inhabitants are men of
business, however seedy.'
'It sounds ignoble,' said Maud.
'I have nothing to do with that, my dear girl. Now, as I tell
you, I am slowly, but surely, learning the business. My line
won't be novels; I have failed in that direction, I'm not cut out
for the work. It's a pity, of course; there's a great deal of
money in it. But I have plenty of scope. In ten years, I repeat,
I shall be making my thousand a year.'
'I don't remember that you stated the exact sum before,' Maud
observed.
'Let it pass. And to those who have shall be given. When I have a
decent income of my own, I shall marry a woman with an income
somewhat larger, so that casualties may be provided for.'
Dora exclaimed, laughing:
'It would amuse me very much if the Reardons got a lot of money
at Mr Yule's death--and that can't be ten years off, I'm sure.
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