"I don't care about the law, father!..." "I don't care about it myself, Henry. I was no good at it, an' mebbe that's the reason I think so little of it. But we have to have lawyers all the same. It would be a good plan now to sentence criminals to be lawyers, wouldn't it? 'The sentence of the Court is that you be taken from this place an' made to practise at the Bar for the rest of your natural life, an' may the Lord have mercy on your soul!' Begod, Henry, that's a great notion!" Henry interrupted his father's fancy. "I want to write," he said. "Write!" Mr. Quinn exclaimed. "Write what?" "Books. Novels, I think!..." Mr. Quinn put down his paper and gaped at his son. "Good God," he said, "an author!" "Yes, father." "You're daft, Henry!" Henry got up from his chair, and went across to his father and took hold of his shoulder affectionately. "No, father, I'm not," he answered. "Yes, you are, I tell you. You're clean cracked!..." "I've written one novel already." Mr. Quinn threw out his hands in a despairing gesture. "Oh, well," he said, "if you've committed yourself.... Where is it?" "It's upstairs in my room. The manuscript, I mean. Of course, it hasn't been published yet." A servant came into the room to clear away the remains of the breakfast, and Mr. Quinn got up from his chair and walked through the open window on to the terrace. "What's it about?" he said to Henry who had followed him. "Oh, love!" Henry answered, seating himself beside his father. Mr. Quinn grunted. "Huh!" he said, gazing intently at the gravel. "Is it sloppy?" "I don't think so, father. At least, I hope it isn't!" "Or dirty?" "No, it isn't dirty. I _know_ it isn't dirty," Henry said very emphatically. Mr. Quinn did not answer for a while. He got up from his seat and walked to the end of the terrace where he busied himself for a few moments in tending to a rosebush. Then he returned to the seat where Henry had remained, and said, "Will you let me read it, Henry?" "Why, yes, father. Of coarse, I will," Henry answered, rising and moving towards the house. "I'd like you to read it," he added. "Perhaps you'll tell me what you think of it?" "I will," Mr. Quinn replied, closing his lips down tightly. "I'll just go and get it," Henry said, and he went into the house. Mr. Quinn remained seated on the terrace, looking rigidly in front of him, until Henry returned, carrying a pile of manuscript. He took the paper from him without speaking, and glanced at the first sheet on which Henry had written in a large, clear hand: DRUSILLA: A NOVEL BY HENRY QUINN. and then he turned the page and read what was written on the second sheet: TO MY FATHER He looked at the dedication for a longer time than he had looked at the title-page, and his hand trembled a little as he held the paper. "I thought you wouldn't mind, father!" Henry said.