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"
Yesterday
,
"
he
went
on
in
the
same
quiet
voice
--
"
a
child
was
run
over
here
,
just
opposite
this
hotel
.
It
was
only
a
poor
child
--
mark
that
'
only
.
'
Its
mother
ran
shrieking
out
of
some
back-street
hard
by
,
in
time
to
see
the
little
bleeding
body
carted
up
in
a
mangled
heap
.
She
struck
wildly
with
both
hands
at
the
men
who
were
trying
to
lead
her
away
,
and
with
a
cry
like
that
of
some
hurt
savage
animal
fell
face
forward
in
the
mud
--
dead
.
She
was
only
a
poor
woman
--
another
'
only
.
'
There
were
three
lines
in
the
paper
about
it
headed
'
Sad
Incident
.
'
The
hotel-porter
here
witnessed
the
scene
from
the
door
with
as
composed
a
demeanor
as
that
of
a
fop
at
the
play
,
never
relaxing
the
serene
majesty
of
his
attitude
--
but
about
ten
minutes
after
the
dead
body
of
the
woman
had
been
carried
out
of
sight
,
he
,
the
imperial
,
gold-buttoned
being
,
became
almost
crook-backed
in
his
servile
haste
to
run
and
open
the
door
of
your
brougham
,
my
dear
Geoffrey
,
as
you
drove
up
to
the
entrance
.
This
is
a
little
epitome
of
life
as
it
is
lived
now-a-days
--
and
yet
the
canting
clerics
swear
we
are
all
equal
in
the
sight
of
heaven
!
We
may
be
,
though
it
does
not
look
much
like
it
--
and
if
we
are
,
it
does
not
matter
,
as
we
have
ceased
to
care
how
heaven
regards
us
.
I
do
n't
want
to
point
a
moral
--
I
simply
tell
you
the
'
sad
incident
'
as
it
occurred
--
and
I
am
sure
you
are
not
the
least
sorry
for
the
fate
of
either
the
child
who
was
run
over
,
or
its
mother
who
died
in
the
sharp
agony
of
a
suddenly
broken
heart
.
Now
do
n't
say
you
are
,
because
I
know
you
're
not
!
"
"
How
can
one
feel
sorry
for
people
one
does
not
know
or
has
never
seen
--
"
I
began
.
"
Exactly
!
--
How
is
it
possible
?
And
there
we
have
it
--
how
can
one
feel
,
when
one
's
self
is
so
thoroughly
comfortable
as
to
be
without
any
other
feeling
save
that
of
material
ease
?
Thus
,
my
dear
Geoffrey
,
you
must
be
content
to
let
your
book
appear
as
the
reflex
and
record
of
your
past
when
you
were
in
the
prickly
or
sensitive
stage
--
now
you
are
encased
in
a
pachydermatous
covering
of
gold
,
which
adequately
protects
you
from
such
influences
as
might
have
made
you
start
and
writhe
,
perhaps
even
roar
with
indignation
,
and
in
the
access
of
fierce
torture
,
stretch
out
your
hands
and
grasp
--
quite
unconsciously
--
the
winged
thing
called
Fame
!
"
"
You
should
have
been
an
orator
,
"
--
I
said
,
rising
and
pacing
the
room
to
and
fro
in
vexation
--
"
But
to
me
your
words
are
not
consoling
,
and
I
do
not
think
they
are
true
.
Fame
is
easily
enough
secured
.
"
"
Pardon
me
if
I
am
obstinate
;
"
--
said
Lucio
with
a
deprecatory
gesture
--
"
Notoriety
is
easily
secured
--
very
easily
.
A
few
critics
who
have
dined
with
you
and
had
their
fill
of
wine
,
will
give
you
notoriety
.
But
fame
is
the
voice
of
the
whole
civilized
public
of
the
world
.
"
"
The
public
!
"
I
echoed
contemptuously
--
"
The
public
only
care
for
trash
.
"
"
It
is
a
pity
you
should
appeal
to
it
then
;
"
--
he
responded
with
a
smile
--
"
If
you
think
so
little
of
the
public
why
give
it
anything
of
your
brain
?
It
is
not
worthy
of
so
rare
a
boon
!
Come
,
come
Tempest
--
do
not
join
in
the
snarl
of
unsuccessful
authors
who
take
refuge
,
when
marked
unsaleable
,
in
pouring
out
abuse
on
the
public
.
The
public
is
the
author
's
best
friend
and
truest
critic
.
But
if
you
prefer
to
despise
it
,
in
company
with
all
the
very
little
literature-mongers
who
form
a
mutual
admiration
society
,
I
tell
you
what
to
do
--
print
just
twenty
copies
of
your
book
and
present
these
to
the
leading
reviewers
,
and
when
they
have
written
you
up
(
as
they
will
do
--
I
'll
take
care
of
that
)
let
your
publisher
advertize
to
the
effect
that
the
'
First
and
Second
Large
Editions
'
of
the
new
novel
by
Geoffrey
Tempest
,
are
exhausted
,
one
hundred
thousand
copies
having
been
sold
in
a
week
!
If
that
does
not
waken
up
the
world
in
general
,
I
shall
be
much
surprised
!
"
I
laughed
--
I
was
gradually
getting
into
a
better
humour
.
