To pass upon Stevenson as a stylist was, of course, hardly within Bok's mental reach, so he kept discreetly silent when Stevenson asked his opinion.
In fact, Bok reasoned it out that the novelist did not really expect an answer or an opinion, but was at such times thinking aloud.

The mental process, however, was immensely interesting, particularly when Stevenson would ask Bok to hand him a book on words lying on an adjacent table.

"So hard to find just the right word," Stevenson would say, and Bok got his first realization of the truth of the maxim: "Easy writing, hard reading; hard writing, easy reading." On this particular occasion when Stevenson finished, Bok pulled out his clippings, told the author how his book was being received, and was selling, what the house was doing to advertise it, explained the forthcoming play by Richard Mansfield, and then offered the press notices.
Stevenson took the bundle and held it in his hand.
"That's very nice to tell me all you have," he said, "and I have been greatly interested.

But you have really told me all about it, haven't you, so why should I read these notices?
Hadn't I better get busy on another paper for Mr.Burlingame for the next magazine, else he'll be after me?
You know how impatient these editors are." And he handed back the notices.
Bok saw it was of no use: Stevenson was interested in his work, but, beyond a certain point, not in the world's reception of it.

Bok's estimate of the author rose immeasurably.