When, however, I told her that my friend Jephson was going to collaborate with me, she remarked, “Oh,” in a doubtful tone; and when I further went on to explain to her that Selkirk Brown and Derrick MacShaughnassy were also going to assist, she replied, “Oh,” in a tone which contained no trace of doubtfulness whatever, and from which it was clear that her interest in the matter, as a practical scheme, had entirely evaporated.

I fancy that the fact of my three collaborators being all bachelors diminished somewhat our chances of success, in Ethelbertha’s mind.  Against bachelors, as a class, she entertains a strong prejudice.  A man’s not having sense enough to want to marry, or, having that, not having wit enough to do it, argues to her thinking either weakness of intellect or natural depravity, the former rendering its victim unable, and the latter unfit, ever to become a really useful novelist.

I tried to make her understand the peculiar advantages our plan possessed.

“You see,” I explained, “in the usual commonplace novel we only get, as a matter of fact, one person’s ideas.  Now, in this novel, there will be four clever men all working together.  The public will thus be enabled to obtain the thoughts and opinions of the whole four of us, at the price usually asked for merely one author’s views.  If the British reader knows his own business, he will order this book early, to avoid disappointment.  Such an opportunity may not occur again for years.”

Ethelbertha agreed that this was probable.

“Besides,” I continued, my enthusiasm waxing stronger the more I reflected upon the matter, “this work is going to be a genuine bargain in another way also.  We are not going to put our mere everyday ideas into it.  We are going to crowd into this one novel all the wit and wisdom that the whole four of us possess, if the book will hold it.  We shall not write another novel after this one.  Indeed, we shall not be able to; we shall have nothing more to write.  This work will partake of the nature of an intellectual clearance sale.  We are going to put into this novel simply all we know.”

Ethelbertha shut her lips, and said something inside; and then remarked aloud that she supposed it would be a one volume affair.

I felt hurt at the implied sneer.  I pointed out to her that there already existed a numerous body of specially-trained men employed to do nothing else but make disagreeable observations upon authors and their works—­a duty that, so far as I could judge, they seemed capable of performing without any amateur assistance whatever.  And I hinted that, by his own fireside, a literary man looked to breathe a more sympathetic atmosphere.