CHAPTER XXXVI
NO WAY BUT THIS
In the early days of October, Waymark's book appeared. It excited no
special attention. Here and there a reviewer was found who ventured
to hint that there was powerful writing in this new novel, but no
one dared to heartily recommend it to public attention. By some it
was classed with the "unsavoury productions of the so-called
naturalist school;" others passed it by with a few lines of
unfavourable comment. Clearly it was destined to bring the author
neither fame nor fortune.
Waymark was surprised at his own indifference. Having given a copy
to Casti, and one to Maud, he thought very little more of the
production. It had ceased to interest him; he felt that if he were
to write again it would be in a very different way and of different
people. Even when he prided himself most upon his self-knowledge he
had been most ignorant of the direction in which his character was
developing. Unconsciously, he had struggled to the extremity of
weariness, and now he cared only to let things take their course,
standing aside from every shadow of new onset. Above all, he kept
away as much as possible from the house at Tottenham, where Ida was
still living.
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