This time he had entered the office of a Stockbroker.

"Of course it is rather anxious work sometimes," said the alternative
representative of a bull and a bear. "But it pays in the long run.
I manage to keep up a house in South Kensington, and a carriage and
pair, out of my takings."

"Again, why not?" responded the Critic. "You have a wife and family.
Must you not live?" Then the Critic visited Cheesemongers, and
Bankers, Solicitors, and Upholsterers. At last, he reached the modest
abode of an Author.

"Ah!" said he, in a tone of contempt; "you write books and plays! Why?

"Why, to sell them," answered the Poet, in a faltering voice.

"Sell them!" echoed the Critic, in tones of thunder. "What do you mean
by that?"

"Why, one must live!"

"Nonsense! The universe can get on very well without anyone. You might
be dispensed with; and, if it comes to that, so might I. Yes, I am not
wanted."

"Quite true!" murmured the Author; "indeed, you are not!"

"And, after all, what _is_ your work? Mere brain action! Anyone who
could wield a pen could do it for you! And you expect to be paid, as
if you were a tradesman--a Tailor or an Upholsterer!"