It had
been ambitious of him, of course, to write about the emotions and
experiences of a man of forty and there was perhaps rather an overloaded
and crude attempt at atmosphere, but there was life in the book. It had, he
thought, more swing in the telling of it than the other two.
It is possible, when one is correcting proofs to persuade oneself of
anything. The book appeared and was, from the first moment, loaded with
mishap. On the day of publication there was that terrible fire at the
Casino theatre--people talked of nothing else for a fortnight. Moreover by
an unlucky chance young Rondel's novel, "The Precipice," was published on
the very same day, and as the precipice was a novel one and there were no
less than three young ladies prepared to fall over it at the same moment,
it of course commanded instant attention. It was incidentally written with
an admirable sense of style and a keen sense of character.
But Peter was now in a fever that saw an enemy round every corner. The
English News Supplement only gave him a line:--"'Mortimer Stant.' A new
novel by the author of 'Reuben Hallard,' depicting agreeably enough the
amorous adventures of a stockbroker of middle-age." To this had all his
fine dreams, his moments of exultation, his fevered inspiration come! He
searched the London booksellers but could find no traces of "Mortimer
Stant" at any of them.
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