You have seen the reviews, of course! Bless my heart and soul, what has happened to the people? Of course, it was all started by that tomfool at the Guildhall (I don’t know why Cabinet Ministers should be the only people who can sell one’s books for one nowadays)⁠—but oh, my lights and liver! Oh, goroo! goroo! The silly mutton-headed G.P. is walking into the blooming shops by thousands and buying the thing! Paying for the thing. Shoving down their hard-earned seven-and-sixpences for it! Lord help us⁠—what have I done that I should be a bestseller? Is thy servant a tripe-hound that he should do this thing? First edition sold out. Presses rolling out new printings day and night⁠—Merritt nearly off his head and saying, “I told you so.” Blushing author besieged in his charming Bayswater flat (!!!!)⁠—Remarkable portrait of blushing author by that brilliant young artist Mr. Harwood Lathom (done in a fit of boredom one afternoon when the model hadn’t turned up) being scrambled for by four Press agencies, two literary hostesses and an American lion-tamer! Everything gas and gaiters! Worm-like appeals, from publishers who turned Hercules down, for the next contract but seven, and the Wail and the Blues and the Depress and all the Sunday Bloods yapping over the phone for my all-important, inspired and inspiring views on “What does the Unconscious means to me?”⁠—“Is Monogamy Doomed?”⁠—“Can Women tell the Truth?”⁠—“Should Wives Produce Books or Babies?”⁠—“What is wrong with the Modern Aunt?”⁠—and “Glands or God⁠—Which?”

Bungie, old thing, it all seems absolutely ghastly and preposterous, but the blasted book is booming⁠—and⁠—shall we get married, Bungie? Will you take the risk on the strength of one fluky Boomer (which may perfectly well be a Boomerang and prevent me from ever writing anything worth doing for the rest of my life), and a set of contracts which I may go mad with inability to fulfil? Because, if you will⁠—say so, my courageous infant, and we will tell your Uncle Edward to put up the banns, and prance off hand in hand our own primrose way to the everlasting bonfire.

Pull yourself together, Jack Munting!

Bungie, I’ve never told you how jealous I was because your books sold and mine didn’t. If I tell you so now, don’t remember it against me. Parson Perry says confession is a good thing. Perhaps he’s right. I confess it now⁠—and now forget it, there’s a good girl. Perhaps even now it only means that my wretched book is howlingly bad. I always comforted myself with thinking that I must write better than you to be so unsaleable⁠—but I’m filthily pleased and cock-a-hoop all the same.

Pull yourself together, Jack Munting! You are becoming hysterical. Your glands are functioning madly in the wrong places, and your Unconscious has come unstuck!

Anyhow, I’m going to have quite enough to depress me tomorrow. That crashing nuisance, Leader, has suddenly discovered that he knows the fellow who’s written the book of the season, and is coming along to “Look me up, old boy, and celebrate!”

There was a young student of Caius
Who passed his exams with a squaius,
Ere dissecting at St. Bartholomews
Inward St. Partholomews, such as St. Heartholomews
To discover the cure of disaius.

Oh, well, I suppose one of the penalties of success is the way it brings you in touch with your friends. I had an invitation to dine from the Sheridans last week. “Such a long time since we met, isn’t it?” I will see to it that it shall be longer still.

Well, let me know about the matrimonial outlook, won’t you? I have a great many important engagements, of course, but I daresay I might be able to fit this little matter in somewhere!