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Updated: June 8, 2025
The rush of correspondence evoked by Betton's earlier novel had produced nothing so personal, so exceptional as these communications. He had gulped the praise of "Diadems and Faggots" as undiscriminatingly as it was offered; now he knew for the first time the subtler pleasures of the palate. He tried to feign indifference, even to himself; and to Vyse he made no sign.
"No, I haven't," said Vyse; "but it will be awfully jolly finding out." There was a pause, groping and desperate on Betton's part, sardonically calm on his visitor's. "You you've given up writing altogether?" Betton continued. "Yes; we've changed places, as it were." Vyse paused. "But about these letters you dictate the answers?" "Lord, no!
Even a vanity less ingenious than Betton's might have read in the lady's silence one of the most familiar motions of consent; but the smile provoked by this inference faded as he turned to his other letters. For the uppermost bore the superscription "Dead Letter Office," and the document that fell from it was his own last letter from Florida.
In advertising for one I never imagined I didn't aspire to any one above the ordinary hack." "I'm the ordinary hack," said Vyse drily. Betton's affable gesture protested. "My dear fellow . You see it's not business what I'm in now," he continued with a laugh.
Vyse's notorious lack of delicacy had never been more vividly present to Betton's imagination; and he made up his mind to answer the letters himself. He would keep Vyse on, of course: there were other communications that the secretary could attend to. And, if necessary, Betton would invent an occupation: he cursed his stupidity in having betrayed the fact that his books were already catalogued.
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