“No.  I’ve given all that up.  I’m in an office now—­business.  But it doesn’t take all my time, or pay enough to keep me alive.”

“In that case, my dear fellow—­if you could come every morning; but it’s mostly awful bosh, you know,” Betton again broke off, with growing awkwardness.

Vyse glanced at him humorously.  “What you want me to write?”

“Well, that depends—­” Betton sketched the obligatory smile.  “But I was thinking of the letters you’ll have to answer.  Letters about my books, you know—­I’ve another one appearing next week.  And I want to be beforehand now—­dam the flood before it swamps me.  Have you any idea of the deluge of stuff that people write to a successful novelist?”

As Betton spoke, he saw a tinge of red on Vyse’s thin cheek, and his own reflected it in a richer glow of shame.  “I mean—­I mean—­” he stammered helplessly.

“No, I haven’t,” said Vyse; “but it will be awfully jolly finding out.”

There was a pause, groping and desperate on Betton’s part, sardonically calm on his visitor’s.

“You—­you’ve given up writing altogether?” Betton continued.

“Yes; we’ve changed places, as it were.”  Vyse paused.  “But about these letters—­you dictate the answers?”

“Lord, no!  That’s the reason why I said I wanted somebody—­er—­well used to writing.  I don’t want to have anything to do with them—­not a thing!  You’ll have to answer them as if they were written to you—­” Betton pulled himself up again, and rising in confusion jerked open one of the drawers of his writing-table.

“Here—­this kind of rubbish,” he said, tossing a packet of letters onto Vyse’s knee.

“Oh—­you keep them, do you?” said Vyse simply.

“I—­well—­some of them; a few of the funniest only.”

Vyse slipped off the band and began to open the letters.  While he was glancing over them Betton again caught his own reflection in the glass, and asked himself what impression he had made on his visitor.  It occurred to him for the first time that his high-coloured well-fed person presented the image of commercial rather than of intellectual achievement.  He did not look like his own idea of the author of “Diadems and Faggots”—­and he wondered why.

Vyse laid the letters aside.  “I think I can do it—­if you’ll give me a notion of the tone I’m to take.”

“The tone?”

“Yes—­that is, if I’m to sign your name.”

“Oh, of course:  I expect you to sign for me.  As for the tone, say just what you’d—­well, say all you can without encouraging them to answer.”

Vyse rose from his seat.  “I could submit a few specimens,” he suggested.

“Oh, as to that—­you always wrote better than I do,” said Betton handsomely.

“I’ve never had this kind of thing to write.  When do you wish me to begin?” Vyse enquired, ignoring the tribute.

“The book’s out on Monday.  The deluge will begin about three days after.  Will you turn up on Thursday at this hour?” Betton held his hand out with real heartiness.  “It was great luck for me, your striking that advertisement.  Don’t be too harsh with my correspondents—­I owe them something for having brought us together.”