“Why shouldn’t it be? Oh, there’s nothing the matter with him. My dad used to know his dad out there. They were in the same colony and pretty nearly cleaned it out between them. But Winwood died worth a good bit more than my poor old dad. Oh, he’s all right.” “I’m sure you have said enough to convince any one that the son is all right,” said Josephine. “Three-quarters of a million at least,” remarked Guy Overton with the wink of sagacity. “What, so right as all that?” exclaimed Josephine with the uplifted eyebrows of incredulity. “Every penny,” said the youth with the emphasis of pride. “Oh, money is nothing!” said Amber with the head shake of indifference. “Nothing in the world,” acquiesced Guy, with a heartiness that carried with it absolute conviction of insincerity to the critical ears. “Have you made any progress, Guy?” enquired Amber. “Among this racket?” he asked. “Not much. I think if I’ve made any progress it’s backwards. Two months ago I could read a novel--if it was the right sort--without trouble. But since I have been shown the parts of the machine that turns them out, blest if I can get beyond the first page.” “That’s a good sign; it shows that you are becoming critical,” cried Amber. “Does it? Well... I don’t know. If attending a Technical School of Novel-writing makes a chippie incapable of reading a book, I don’t think the show can be called a success. Anyway I don’t believe that prose fiction--that’s how it’s called--is the department for me. I believe that the poetry shop is the one I’m meant to shine in. You see, there’s only one sort of poetry nowadays, and it’s easily taught; whereas there are a dozen forms of prose fiction--I never guessed that the business was so complicated before I came here. Oh, yes, I’ll join the poetry shop next week.” “You’ll do nothing of the sort: it’s twice as complicated as this,” said Amber severely. “Don’t tell me that,” he retorted. “I’ve heard the best poetry of the day--yes, in the Music Halls, and I believe that with a little practice I could turn it out by the web. All the people want is three verses and a good kick in the chorus--something you remember easily, with a good word about Tommy Atkins and two for good old Mother England. I know the swing of the thing. Oh, yes; I’ll get seconded to the poetry shop. Here comes Barnum himself.” His final words were delivered in a furtive whisper while Mr. Richmond strolled across the room to the group--it was the last group that remained. When he had come up Mr. Guy Overton was extremely respectful in his attitude to Mr. Richmond and called him “Sir.” He looked at his watch, however, a moment later and said he was an hour late for a particular appointment that he had, so he reckoned he should make himself distant.