a
year.' He will read your deepest soul with one glance, and will reply, in
a casual tone, 'I dare say I could find you something regular to do on the
magazine page.' You go on airily: 'I'm pretty sure I can bring twenty
thousand pounds' worth of ads. a year.' He will then order R.P. Muria
cigars, and say with benevolence: 'It just happens that the head of our
reviewing department is under notice. How would that suit you?' You then
unmask all your batteries, and tell him squarely that you can bring him
advertisements to the tune of a thousand pounds a week. Whereupon he will
reply, shaking you fraternally by the hand: 'My dear fellow, I will make
you editor at once.'"
* * * * *
So spake my celebrated friend. Of course, he is a cynic. He may be a
criminal cynic. But he spake so. From time to time London dailies do me
the honour to reprint saucy paragraphs from this weekly article of mine.
My friend said to me: "You can print what I've said, if you like. No daily
paper in London will reprint _that_."
MARGUERITE AUDOUX
[_2 March '11_]
Among the astonishing phenomena of a spring season which promises to be
quite as successful, in its way, as the very glorious autumn season
(publishers must have spent a happy Christmas!) is the success of a really
distinguished book.
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