There was a touch of sourness in his tone, and I remembered that the _Kensington_ I had seen had been ballasted with seven goodly pages by Callan himself--seven unreadable packed pages of a serial.
"As I was saying," Callan began again, "you ought to know me very well, and I suppose you are acquainted with my books.

As for the rest, I will give you what material you want." "But, my dear Callan," I said, "I've never tried my hand at that sort of thing." Callan silenced me with a wave of his hand.
"It struck both Fox and myself that your--your 'Jenkins' was just what was wanted," he said; "of course, that was a study of a kind of broken-down painter.

But it was well done." I bowed my head.

Praise from Callan was best acknowledged in silence.
"You see, what we want, or rather what Fox wants," he explained, "is a kind of series of studies of celebrities _chez eux_.

Of course, they are not broken down.