With his pipe alight he was an ideal listener; without it his attention wandered and grew drowsy.

But Malcolm, wrapt up in his own visionary conceits, did not see the pathos of the action.
He was on his favourite hobby-horse--life, and its limitations, its enforced denials and futile sacrifices, was opening before his eyes.
"I am going to write a book," he announced abruptly.

"I mean to take the world by storm--to say my say--for once.

It will not be a novel.
The public is inundated by the flood of fiction that threatens to engulf it.

We have biographies by the ton, in two, three, or four volumes; in every public place in England we set up our golden image, and we bid men, women, and children fall down and do it homage.
Hero-worship is our favourite cult; woe to that man who refuses to burn incense before it!" "I suppose you intend to bring out a volume of essays ?" queried Amias lazily.
"No, my dear fellow," returned Malcolm rather mendaciously, for he was planning a series of essays at that very time.