“Probably professional jealousy, Barry----” He constructed an iced draught for himself, sipped it, furtively noticing the bluish shadows on Annan’s temples and under his cheek-bones. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “Nothing.... I’m worried because I can’t write.” “Rot, my son.” “It’s quite true. I haven’t touched a pen for a month, nearly.... The hell of it is that I’ve nothing to say.” There was a silence. “Good God, Mike,” he burst out, “do you think I’m done for?” “I think not,” drawled the other. “Because--I can’t work. I _can’t_. I seem to be in a sort of nightmare state of mind.... Did you ever feel that the world’s askew and everything out of proportion?” “No, I never did. Something has happened to you, Barry.” “Nothing--important.... No.... But I’m rather scared about my work. You know those stories I did for you? I hate them!” “You ungrateful young devil, they made you.” “_What_ did they make me?” “A best-seller--for one item. A fine workman for another----” “Mike! Who cares for good workmanship in these days? Who understands it when he sees it? Who does it? “It’s a jerry-age,--jerry-built houses, furniture, machinery,--jerry-built literature, music, drama,--jerry-built nations too,--and marriages and children and every damned thing that once required good workmanship. “Now, everything is glue and pasteboard and unskilled labour----” “Oh, lay off on your jerry-built jeremiad!” cried Coltfoot, laughing. “Where do you get that stuff?” “Stuff is right, too. I’m a fake, also. I’m a jerry-built author with a jerry-built education and I write jerry-bui----” He dodged a lump of ice. “Shut up,” said Coltfoot wearily. “How long do you think I’m going to listen? Come on, now, what’s started you skidding, Barry?” “You started me.” “Oh--that line of talk I handed you?” “It got under my skin.” “Oh! Who’s been sticking the knife into you since? Not your fool public. Not the Great American Ass.” Annan shook his head. “Well, who?” “Another--friend.” “Is that what upset you?” “Yes.... Partly.” “You’re not ill, are you, Barry?” inquired the elder man, curiously. “No, I should say not!” “Financial troubles?... You don’t mind my asking?” “Oh, it isn’t anything of that sort, Mike.... It really isn’t anything.” “You’re not--in love.... Are you?” “Hang it all, no, I’m not!... No.... I’ve never been in love, Mike.” “You’ve had a few affairs, dear friend,” remarked Coltfoot, amused. “Well, you know the kind. Everybody has ’em. Everybody has that sort. That’s just vanity--silliness--no harm, you know.... The young are always sparring--like little chicks and kittens.” Coltfoot finished his glass. There was an interval; Annan set both elbows on his knees and framed his drawn face between his hands. “No, I’m not in love,” he said as though to himself. They discussed other matters. But now and then Annan drifted back to love, and his ignorance of it.