"
"I am not," I retorted, "and if I were, it would be because none of the
new things have been said yet about spring, and because spring is never
an old story, any more than youth or love."
"I have heard something like that before," said my friend, "and I
understand. The simple truth of the matter is that this is the fag-end
of the season, and you have run low in your subjects. Now take my advice
and don't write about spring; it will make everybody hate you, and will
do no good. Write about advertising." He tapped the book under his arm
significantly. "Here is a theme for you."
I.
He had no sooner pronounced these words than I began to feel a weird and
potent fascination in his suggestion. I took the book from him and
looked it eagerly through. It was called Good Advertising, and it was
written by one of the experts in the business who have advanced it almost
to the grade of an art, or a humanity.
"But I see nothing here," I said, musingly, "which would enable a
self-respecting author to come to the help of his publisher in giving due
hold upon the public interest those charming characteristics of his book
which no one else can feel so penetratingly or celebrate so
persuasively."
"I expected some such objection from you," said my friend. "You will
admit that there is everything else here?"
"Everything but that most essential thing.
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