In the meantime the world had begun to ask:  “Who is this Martin Eden?” He had declined to give any biographical data to his publishers, but the newspapers were not to be denied.  Oakland was his own town, and the reporters nosed out scores of individuals who could supply information.  All that he was and was not, all that he had done and most of what he had not done, was spread out for the delectation of the public, accompanied by snapshots and photographs—­the latter procured from the local photographer who had once taken Martin’s picture and who promptly copyrighted it and put it on the market.  At first, so great was his disgust with the magazines and all bourgeois society, Martin fought against publicity; but in the end, because it was easier than not to, he surrendered.  He found that he could not refuse himself to the special writers who travelled long distances to see him.  Then again, each day was so many hours long, and, since he no longer was occupied with writing and studying, those hours had to be occupied somehow; so he yielded to what was to him a whim, permitted interviews, gave his opinions on literature and philosophy, and even accepted invitations of the bourgeoisie.  He had settled down into a strange and comfortable state of mind.  He no longer cared.  He forgave everybody, even the cub reporter who had painted him red and to whom he now granted a full page with specially posed photographs.

He saw Lizzie occasionally, and it was patent that she regretted the greatness that had come to him.  It widened the space between them.  Perhaps it was with the hope of narrowing it that she yielded to his persuasions to go to night school and business college and to have herself gowned by a wonderful dressmaker who charged outrageous prices.  She improved visibly from day to day, until Martin wondered if he was doing right, for he knew that all her compliance and endeavor was for his sake.  She was trying to make herself of worth in his eyes—­of the sort of worth he seemed to value.  Yet he gave her no hope, treating her in brotherly fashion and rarely seeing her.

“Overdue” was rushed upon the market by the Meredith-Lowell Company in the height of his popularity, and being fiction, in point of sales it made even a bigger strike than “The Shame of the Sun.”  Week after week his was the credit of the unprecedented performance of having two books at the head of the list of best-sellers.  Not only did the story take with the fiction-readers, but those who read “The Shame of the Sun” with avidity were likewise attracted to the sea-story by the cosmic grasp of mastery with which he had handled it.  First he had attacked the literature of mysticism, and had done it exceeding well; and, next, he had successfully supplied the very literature he had exposited, thus proving himself to be that rare genius, a critic and a creator in one.