“Well, this is good!” cried West. “Sit down!” From a broken easy chair he swept a pile of newspapers and a dozen or so books for review. “Here, take a cigarette, and give me ten minutes to finish this.” The scribbling was resumed, with the remark—Greek to Colin: “It’s those dashed Zeniths—started booming again this morning.” At the end of seven minutes he sat up, rang the bell, and swung round towards his visitor. “Talk!” he said, wiping his brow with one hand, and tapping a cigarette on the desk with the other. A boy dashed in, grabbed the scribbled sheets, and fled. “Do you still write verses?” asked Colin involuntarily. West exploded with amusement. “So that’s how it strikes you! Yes, I do—not here—but never mind me—what are you doing in London?” “Nothing,” was the truthful enough answer. West’s gaze was kindly. “Go on! Something tells me you are in a hole, and if I can do anything to help—” “Thanks, Anthony. I see you haven’t changed,” said Colin gratefully. “I’ll tell you all about it, for I need advice badly.” And with commendable brevity he gave his friend an outline of his affairs. After he had ended the other remained silent, a brooding look on his tired, rugged, honest face, for nearly a minute. He spoke abruptly, but gently. “What do you want to do?” “Anything.” “H’m! What can you do?” “Nothing.” “Oh, it can’t be so bad as all that, Colin! Do anything in the way of writing nowadays?” Colin flushed. “Haven’t touched it for a year. You see, I did make an attempt to please the governor.” “And before that?” “Had a few small things accepted here and there, locally, you know.” Anthony sighed. “I broke forcibly away from the uncongenial myself,” he said, “so my sympathy is genuine. But it didn’t mean falling into clover. I’m here from seven to twelve six days a week doing things I hate, and earning some money. For the rest of the day I’m free—and sometimes my brains are free, too—to do things I like, which, however, seldom earn anything. My income is about four pounds a week, and it might stop any week. I’m telling you these things, Colin, not to discourage you, but simply to prepare you—” “But four pounds a week is rather good,” said Colin. “So I thought when I was a student, living at the cost of my father. Why, now, I could easily spend it all on books alone.” “Are—are you married?” Colin ventured. “No . . . I’m not complaining, you know. Four quid is doubtless as much as I deserve, but I’d like to be able to look forward to something bigger—only I daren’t hope. If I were you, Colin, I’d leave writing—journalism or the other thing—for a last resort. Take a look round and see what you can see. I suppose you have some stuff to go on with.” “About fifteen pounds.” Anthony frowned. “That doesn’t give you much rope. Of course. I’ll be delighted—” “Please!” interrupted Colin.