A novel.

And"-- here he set his teeth hard--"I intend that it shall make me--famous!" "The intention is good,"-- said Helmsley, slowly--"But--there are so many novels!" "No, there are not!" declared Reay, decisively--"There are plenty of rag-books _called_ novels--but they are not real 'novels.' There's nothing 'new' in them.

There's no touch of real, suffering, palpitating humanity in them! The humanity of to-day is infinitely more complex than it was in the days of Scott or Dickens, but there's no Scott or Dickens to epitomise its character or delineate its temperament.

I want to be the twentieth century Scott and Dickens rolled into one stupendous literary Titan!" His mellow laughter was hearty and robust.

Helmsley caught its infection and laughed too.
"But why,"-- he asked--"do you want to write a novel?
Why not write a real _book_ ?" "What do you call a real book, old David ?" demanded Reay, looking down upon him with a sudden piercing glance.
Helmsley was for a moment confused.