When a play makes a tremendous hit theauthor is called before the curtain and afterbowing and allowing his heart (and his head)to swell more and more, he generously pointsto the actors and actresses who are groupedaround him as much as to say, “They didit.”

And then the audience goes wild at suchunselfishness and cries of “Speech, speech!”rend the air and the author has arrived atthe happiest moment of his life. He feelsthat all creation was evolved just for thissupreme moment and his knees shake and (ina voice surcharged with emotion) he saysthings that do not read well in print, butwhich rouse the house to greater enthusiasm,and he wishes that William Shakespearecould have lived to see this night, and goeshome to dream happy dreams.

Sometimes he can’t contain his speech anylonger than the end of the third act, and withcomparatively little applause, and, it may be,only one solitary call of “Author” (fromhis devoted brother in the front row) herushes to the footlights and delivers himselfof his pent up eloquence. And then perhapsthe critics jump on the piece and kill it, andthe next day he wishes he hadn’t spoken.

But no dramatic author would think ofgoing out before the gray asbestos curtainhad been raised on the overture to say to thecold, sternly critical audience that this wasthe proudest moment of his life and that hehoped the actors would see their duty anddo it. That would be considered assurance.

And yet we writers of—novels—do rushon before the first chapter has been reachedand sometimes we tell how it is going to endand sometimes we give the names of theauthorities from whom we lifted our centralidea, and sometimes we strike an attitude oftimid uncertainty and bespeak th

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