midnight
At this bruised cynicism an older man would have smiled , but to Stuart it was poignantly real . He had lost the prize which to him seemed the only guerdon worth striving for , while every other recognition had come easily -- almost without effort . The success of his novel had been so extraordinary that Farquaharson fell to reviewing his literary experience with a somewhat impersonal amusement . He had not poured his soul into his work with a bitter sweat of midnight endeavor as the genius is said to do . He had wooed the muse about as reverently as a battered tramp might fondle an equally battered dog , seeking , without illusion , a substitute for better companionship . One afternoon he sat alone in a Yokohama tea-house , reading the latest collection of newspaper reviews which had come to his hand . `` We have here a book , '' observed one commentator , `` which irritates with a sense of undeveloped power while it delights with a too-facile charm .