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Updated: May 15, 2025
It's impossible for you to write a three-volume novel; very well, then do a short story of a kind that's likely to be popular. You know Mr Milvain is always saying that the long novel has had its day, and that in future people will write shilling books. Why not try? Give yourself a week to invent a sensational plot, and then a fortnight for the writing.
Milvain began to expatiate on that well-worn topic, the evils of the three-volume system. 'A triple-headed monster, sucking the blood of English novelists. One might design an allegorical cartoon for a comic literary paper. By-the-bye, why doesn't such a thing exist? a weekly paper treating of things and people literary in a facetious spirit.
'Profits would be less, I suppose. People would take the minimum subscription. 'Well, to go to the concrete, what about your own one-volume? 'All but done. 'And you'll offer it to Jedwood? Go and see him personally. He's a very decent fellow, I believe. Milvain stayed only half an hour.
The ostensible reason she gave was that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hilbery should be disturbed. But, in truth, Mrs. Milvain depended even more than most elderly women of her generation upon the delicious emotions of intimacy, agony, and secrecy, and the additional thrill provided by the basement was one not lightly to be forfeited. She protested almost plaintively when Katharine proposed to go upstairs.
'My word! exclaimed Milvain, after a moment's meditation. 'It's well this didn't happen a year ago. The girls have no income; only a little cash to go on with. We shall have our work set. It's a precious lucky thing that I have just got a sort of footing. Reardon muttered an assent. 'And what are you doing now? Jasper inquired suddenly. 'Writing a one-volume story. 'I'm glad to hear that.
A clear six hundred, if a penny! 'Satisfactory, so far. 'But you must remember that I'm not a big gun, like you! Why, my dear Milvain, a year ago I should have thought an income of two hundred a glorious competence. I don't aim at such things as are fit for you. You won't be content till you have thousands; of course I know that. But I'm a humble fellow. Yet no; by Jingo, I'm not!
In the gauzy and fluffy and varnishy little drawing-room Reardon found a youngish gentleman already in conversation with the widow and her daughter. This proved to be one Mr Jasper Milvain, also a man of letters. Mr Milvain was glad to meet Reardon, whose books he had read with decided interest.
But now he took counsel of no one; as far as it was possible he lived in solitude, never seeing those of his acquaintances who were outside the literary world, and seldom even his colleagues. Milvain was so busy that he had only been able to look in twice or thrice since Christmas, and Reardon nowadays never went to Jasper's lodgings.
Their conversation lasted for a long time, and when he was again left alone Jasper again fell into a mood of thoughtfulness. By a late post on the following day he received this letter: 'DEAR MR MILVAIN, I have received the proofs, and have just read them; I hasten to thank you with all my heart.
On ordinary days the road saw few vehicles, and pedestrians were rare. Mrs Milvain and her daughters had lived here for the last seven years, since the death of the father, who was a veterinary surgeon. The widow enjoyed an annuity of two hundred and forty pounds, terminable with her life; the children had nothing of their own.
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