would not only do a book of poetry for him but also market it successfully. He knew better now.
"Yes," he said to himself as he shambled disconsolately along Henrietta Street, "I am now tarred all over and inches deep and permanently with the reputation of a successful novelist, and a novelist I am to be henceforward and for ever. There's not a publisher of the lot who will risk a dud threepence on my exquisite poems, though I have only to show myself with a new fiction to sell and they'll tear the beards off one another to handle it. If I'm ever to get these things of mine produced now, I shall have to do it under another name than my own. It's a pity," here he gave a rather dreadful little laugh, "that poetry—at least my kind of poetry—is no more permissible for Archdeacons than is fiction.
