“Why, his paper of course. The _Beacon_ has given him what he calls the
sack. They don’t like his letters: they’re not the style of thing they
want.”
My blankness could only deepen. “Then what style of thing _do_ they
want?”
“Something more chatty.”
“More?” I cried, aghast.
“More gossipy, more personal. They want ‘journalism.’ They want
tremendous trash.”
“Why, that’s just what his letters have _been!_” I broke out.
This was strong, and I caught myself up, but the girl offered me the
pardon of a beautiful wan smile. “So Ray himself declares. He says he
has stooped so low.”
“Very well--he must stoop lower. He _must_ keep the place.”
“He can’t!” poor Maud wailed. “He says he has tried all he knows, has
been abject, has gone on all fours, and that if they don’t like that--”
“He accepts his dismissal?” I interposed in dismay.
She gave a tragic shrug. “What other course is open to him? He wrote to
them that such work as he has done is the very worst he can do for the
money.”
“Therefore,” I inquired with a flash of hope, “they’ll offer him more
for worse?”
“No indeed,” she answered, “they haven’t even offered him to go on at a
reduction. He isn’t funny enough.”
I reflected a moment. “But surely such a thing as his notice of my
book--!”
“It was your wretched book that was the last straw! He should have
treated it superficially.”
“Well, if he didn’t--!” I began. Then I checked myself. “_Je vous porte
malheur._”
She didn’t deny this; she only went, on: “What on earth is he to do?”
“He’s to do better than the monkeys! He’s to write!”
“But what on earth are we to marry on?”