Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth. ” “It’s an unrest—a longing—What’s that?” The waiter had intervened. "Well, that beats all I ever heard of!" roared Blueskin. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. Wear one on the stage on the following day. ‘Small wonder in a way that he found hisself consolation elsewhere.
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