THE AUTHOR OF "TRIXIE"
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Otherwise I might invite His Whiskers to help me."
"Well," he went on, "money has got to be raised somehow, and soon, and since my poetry is evidently going to say nothing to the Beni Barabbas, I'd better gird up my loins and bloody[1] well write a successor to 'Trixie' for myself. I can draw ten thousand advance royalties from Cappers on the MS. at sight, and if Chlöe won't swallow it as another burlesque, she just needn't. Not that I believe she'll care now. What she wants, now, is money and lots of it. The same with me, for that matter. Yes, I'm afraid our ideals have rather faded out since we married. Thoroughly corrupt, that's what we are.
- ↑ Every novelist, who at all pretends to be taken seriously, is expected, nowadays, occasionally to use this word in this sense. Hitherto it has been absent (in this sense) from my works, but that reproach can no longer be levelled at me.—W. C.
