His second book, "Broken Spears," was in proof before Sir Geoffrey Mundane decided to produce "The Magic Casement," and for a while he was at a loose end. He could not think of a subject for another story, although he had invented a good title: Turbulence. He sat at his desk, forcing himself to write chapters that ended ingloriously. He wrote pages and pages, and in the evening threw them into the wastepaper basket. "My God," he said to himself one morning, when he had been sitting at his desk for over an hour without writing a word, "I believe I've lost the power to write!" He got up, terrified, and went to Gilbert's room. "Hilloa, bloke!" said Gilbert, looking round at him as he entered. "Are you busy, Gilbert?" he asked. "I'm kidding myself that I am, but between ourselves, Quinny, I'm reading Gerald Luke's last book. That chap's a poet. He's as good as Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Listen to this!..." But Henry did not wish to listen to Gerald Luke's poems. "Gilbert," he said, "I believe I'm done!" "Done?" Gilbert exclaimed, putting down the book of poems. "Yes. I don't believe I shall ever do another book...." "Silly ass!" "I can't think of anything. My mind's like pap. I keep on writing and writing, but I only get a pile of words. That was bad enough, but to-day I can't write at all. I simply can't write...." "Haven't you got a theme?" "Vaguely, yes, but the thing won't come to life. The people lie about like logs, and ... damn them, they won't move!" "Look here," said Gilbert, "I'm tired of work. Let's chuck it for a while. You're obviously off colour, and a holiday'll do you good. Let's go out somewhere for the day anyhow. I've a first night this evening. We'll wind up with that!" "What's the play?" Henry asked. "A revival. They're bringing Wilde's 'The Ideal Husband' on at the St. James's again," Gilbert answered. "Alexander's very good in it...." "That's the fashionable theatre, isn't it?" Henry's knowledge of London was still very limited, and he seldom visited the theatre, chiefly because Gilbert, who had to visit them all, spoke of the English drama with contempt. "Yes," Gilbert replied. "All the Jews and dukes go there. Suppose we go for a row on the Serpentine, Quinny? You can pull the oars for an hour. It'll do you no end of good, and I'll lie in the bottom of the boat and watch you. That'll do me no end of good. Come on, let's get out of this!" 4 They came away from the boathouse, and as they walked towards Hyde Park Corner, a motor-car drove slowly past them. "Who's that?" said Henry, as Gilbert raised his hat to the lady who was seated in the car. "Lady Cecily Jayne," Gilbert answered. "Oh!... She's very beautiful." "Think so?" "Yes." "I'll introduce you to her to-night. She's certain to be at the theatre. We ought to make certain of getting a ticket for you, Quinny. Let's go down to the theatre and book a seat."