I bowed politely to my dreams of literary fame and became wholly absorbed in my journalistic work.

When the book came out I could not but admire the excellence of the bookmaking, but as I looked through the reviews and found no mention save in "books received," I threw the book aside and vowed that it should be my last.

The publisher wrote me that he was surprised that the book had not caught on, as he considered the story unusually clever.

"Merit is one thing," he said, "but luck is another." I have found this to be true, not only in literature, but in all walks of life where fame and money are the goals.

Phyllis wrote me that she thought the book "just splendid"; but I took her praise with a grain of salt, it being likely that she was partial to the author, and that the real worth of the book was little in comparison with the fact that it was I who wrote it.
One morning in early June I found three letters on my desk.