Peter already inflamed with that earlier half-hour in the garden now breathed a portentous air. He was with the Gods ... there on the Olympian heights he drank with them, he sang songs with them, with mighty voices they applauded “Reuben Hallard.” He drank in his excitement many whiskies and sodas and soon the white room with its books was like the inside of a golden shell. The old man opposite him grew in size--his face was ever larger and larger, his shirt front bulged and bulged--his hand raised to emphasise some point was tremendous as the hand of a God. Peter felt that he himself was growing smaller and smaller, would soon, in the depths of that mighty arm-chair disappear altogether but that opposite him two mighty burning eyes held him. And always like thunder the voice rolled on.... “My son tells me that this book of yours is a success ... that they are emptying their purses to fill yours. That may be a dangerous thing for you. I have read your book, it has many faults; it is not written at all--it is loose and lacking in all construction. You know nothing, as yet, about life--you do not know what to use or what to reject. But the Spirit is there, the right Spirit. It is a little flame--it will be very easily quenched and nothing can kill it so easily as success--guard it, my son, guard it.” Peter felt as Siegfried must have felt when confronted by Wotan. His poor little book was dwindling now before his eyes. He was conscious of a great despair. How useless of him to attempt so impossible a task.... The voice rolled on: