It was done at last, yet another novel, and not such a bad one after all.

Not his best by any means, but perhaps still further from being his worst; and, at all events, the thing was done.

Langholm could scarcely grasp that fact, though there was the last page just dry upon the bureau, and most of the rest lying about the room in galley-proofs or in typewritten sheets.

Moreover, the publishers were pleased; that was the joke.

It was nothing less to Langholm when he reflected that the final stimulus to finish this book had been the prospect and determination of at last writing one to please himself.