himself of these sentences as if they were part of an after-dinner speech, closed his bead-like eyes and rolled his tongue ecstatically around his cheek. He was beginning, Ambrose believed, to resemble a hippopotamus more than an eagle. Presently the great man inquired: How many copies of a book do you sell, Mr. Deacon?
I haven't published a book yet, Ambrose replied.
Well, and s'pose you did, how many would you sell? Griesheimer persisted.
My first book will be a book of short stories. It might sell two thousand copies. Probably not so many.
Two thousand copies! Griesheimer thundered scornfully. Did you hear that, Auburn? Two thousand copies. That means perhaps four thousand people—let's be generous—seven thousand people should read your masterpiece. Have you any idea, Mr. Deacon, how many people should witness a film spectacle by you?
I don't believe I have.
Between fifty and a hundred million, sir, between fifty and a hundred million, Griesheimer repeated in a tone that implied that even he regarded these figures with wonder, and yet you don't respect the films!
