"My publishers admitted to me last week that they wouldn't rest easy if any newspaper appeared during the next month without my name being in its columns in some place." "I'm sure they were delighted at the development of the _Spiritual Aneroid's_ attack upon you," said Phyllis.
"They told me I was a made man," said he.
She threw back her head--it was her way--and laughed.

Her laughter--all the grace of girlhood was in its ring; it was girlhood made audible--was lightening her fair face as she looked at him.
"How funny!" she cried.

"You fight your way through the New Guinea forests; you are in daily peril of your life; you open up a new country, and yet you are not a made man until you are attacked by a wretched newspaper." "That is the standpoint of the people who sell books, so you may depend upon its being the standpoint of the people who buy books," said he.
"I can quite believe it," said she.

"Mr.Geraint, the novelist, took me down to dinner at Mrs.Lemuel's last night, and he told me that the only thing that will make people buy books is seeing the author's portrait in some of the illustrated papers, or hearing from some of the interviews which are published regarding him that he never could take sugar in his coffee.

The reviews of his books are read only by his brother authors, and they never buy a book, Mr.Geraint says; but the interviews are read by the genuine buyers." "Mr.Geraint knows his public, I'm sure." "I fancy he does.