New Grub Street by George Gissing (best mobile ebook reader .txt) 📕

“I was passing,” he said in his respectful voice, “and couldn’t resist the temptation.”

Jasper struck a match and lit the lamp. In this clearer light Whelpdale was exhibited as a young man of greatly improved exterior; he wore a cream-coloured waistcoat, a necktie of subtle hue, and delicate gloves; prosperity breathed from his whole person. It was, in fact, only a moderate prosperity to which he had as yet attained, but the future beckoned to him flatteringly.

Early in this year, his enterprise as “literary adviser” had brought him in contact with a man of some pecuniary resources, who proposed to establish an agency for the convenience of authors who were not skilled in disposing of their productions to the best advantage. Under the name of Fleet & Co., this business was shortly set on foot, and Whelpdale’s services were retained on satisfactory terms. The birth of the syndicate system had given new scope to literary agencies, and Mr. Fleet was a man of keen eye for commercial opportunities.

“Well, have you read Biffen’s book?” asked Jasper.

“Wonderful, isn’t it! A work of genius, I am convinced. Ha! you have it there, Miss Dora. But I’m afraid it is hardly for you.”

“And why not, Mr. Whelpdale?”

“You should only read of beautiful things, of happy lives. This book must depress you.”

“But why will you imagine me such a feebleminded person?” asked Dora. “You have so often spoken like this. I have really no ambition to be a doll of such superfine wax.”

The habitual flatterer looked deeply concerned.

“Pray forgive me!” he murmured humbly, leaning forwards towards the girl with eyes which deprecated her displeasure. “I am very far indeed from attributing weakness to you. It was only the natural, unreflecting impulse; one finds it so difficult to associate you, even as merely a reader, with such squalid scenes. The ignobly decent, as poor Biffen calls it, is so very far from that sphere in which you are naturally at home.”

There was some slight affectation in his language, but the tone attested sincere feeling. Jasper was watching him with half an eye, and glancing occasionally at Dora.

“No doubt,” said the latter, “it’s my story in The English Girl that inclines you to think me a goody-goody sort of young woman.”

“So far from that, Miss Dora, I was only waiting for an opportunity to tell you how exceedingly delighted I have been with the last two weeks’ instalments. In all seriousness, I consider that story of yours the best thing of the kind that ever came under my notice. You seem to me to have discovered a new genre; such writing as this has surely never been offered to girls, and all the readers of the paper must be immensely grateful to you. I run eagerly to buy the paper each week; I assure you I do. The stationer thinks I purchase it for a sister, I suppose. But each section of the story seems to be better than the last. Mark the prophecy which I now make: when this tale is published in a volume its success will be great. You will be recognised, Miss Dora, as the new writer for modern English girls.”

The subject of this panegyric coloured a little and laughed. Unmistakably she was pleased.

“Look here, Whelpdale,” said Jasper, “I can’t have this; Dora’s conceit, please to remember, is, to begin with, only a little less than my own, and you will make her unendurable. Her tale is well enough in its way, but then its way is a very humble one.”

“I deny it!” cried the other, excitedly. “How can it be called a humble line of work to provide reading, which is at once intellectual and moving and exquisitely pure, for the most important part of the population⁠—the educated and refined young people who are just passing from girlhood to womanhood?”

“The most important fiddlestick!”

“You are grossly irreverent, my dear Milvain. I cannot appeal to your sister, for she’s too modest to rate her own sex at its true value, but the vast majority of thoughtful men would support me. You yourself do, though you affect this profane way of speaking. And we know,” he looked at Dora, “that he wouldn’t talk like this if Miss Yule were present.”

Jasper changed the topic of conversation, and presently Whelpdale was able to talk with more calmness. The young man, since his association with Fleet & Co., had become fertile in suggestions of literary enterprise, and at present he was occupied with a project of special hopefulness.

“I want to find a capitalist,” he said, “who will get possession of that paper Chat, and transform it according to an idea I have in my head. The thing is doing very indifferently, but I am convinced it might be made splendid property, with a few changes in the way of conducting it.”

“The paper is rubbish,” remarked Jasper, “and the kind of rubbish⁠—oddly enough⁠—which doesn’t attract people.”

“Precisely, but the rubbish is capable of being made a very valuable article, if it were only handled properly. I have talked to the people about it again and again, but I can’t get them to believe what I say. Now just listen to my notion. In the first place, I should slightly alter the name; only slightly, but that little alteration would in itself have an enormous effect. Instead of Chat I should call it Chit-Chat!”

Jasper exploded with mirth.

“That’s brilliant!” he cried. “A stroke of genius!”

“Are you serious? Or are you making fun of me? I believe it is a stroke of genius. Chat doesn’t attract anyone, but Chit-Chat would sell like hot cakes, as they say in America. I know I am right; laugh as you will.”

“On the same principle,” cried Jasper, “if The Tatler were changed to Tittle-Tattle, its circulation would be trebled.”

Whelpdale smote his knee in delight.

“An admirable idea! Many a true word uttered in joke, and this is an instance! Tittle-Tattle⁠—a magnificent title; the very thing