"He's accepted it, Quinny! I always said he was a damned good actor, and so he is. My Lord, this is ripping! He says _it's a splendid comedy_ ... so it is ... _as good as Oscar Wilde at his best_ ... oh, better, damn it, better ... and will I _please come and see him on Friday morning at eleven o'clock_ ... I'll be there before he's out of bed!... I say, Quinny, we ought to do something, ought'nt we? Is it the correct thing to get drunk on these occasions?" His joy was so extravagant that Henry felt many years older than Gilbert, and he patted him paternally on the shoulder and told him to develop the stoic virtues. "I'm most frightfully pleased, Gilbert!" he said, when he had done with the paternal manner. "When's he going to put the play on?" "He doesn't say. The thing he's doing now is no damn good, and he'll probably take it off soon. Perhaps he'll produce 'The Magic Casement' after that. Quinny, it is a good play, isn't it? Sometimes I get a most shocking hump about things, and I think I'm no good at all...." "Of course, it's a good play, Gilbert!..." "Yes, but is it good enough?" "I don't know. I don't suppose anything ever is. I thought 'Drusilla' was a great book until my father read it, and then I thought it was rubbish...." "It wasn't rubbish, Quinny, and the revised version is really good." "I think that, too, but sometimes I'm not sure!" "Isn't it damnable, Quinny, this job of writing? You never get any satisfaction out of it. I'd like to make cheeses ... I'm sure people who make cheeses feel that they've just made the very best cheese that can be made ... but I'm always seeing something in my work that might have been done better." Henry nodded his head. "I suppose," he said, "it'll always be like that I think," he went on, "Maiden is going to take my novel. I saw Redder yesterday!..." Redder was his agent ... "and he says Maiden's the likeliest person. I shan't get much. Forty or fifty pounds on account of royalties, but it's a start!" "The great thing," said Gilbert, "is to get into print. I wonder how much I'll make out of my play!" "More than I shall make out of my novel," Henry answered. His talks with Mr. Redder had modified Henry's ideas of the profits made by novelists. Gilbert started up from the low chair into which he had thrown himself. "I'm going to start on another play this minute!" he said. "My head's simply humming with ideas!" He stopped half way to the door, and turned towards Henry again. "You were working when I came in," he said. "What are you doing?" "I've started another novel," Henry answered. "Oh! Done much of it?" "No, only the title. I'm calling it 'Broken Spears.'" "Damn good title, too," said Gilbert. 3