He looked at them for a little; they were too much absorbed in their doggy conversation to pay attention to him. He made a gesture as though he had suddenly remembered something, gave a little grunt, and with a very preoccupied expression on his face turned to go towards the house. His elaborate piece of by-play escaped the notice of the intended spectators; Guy saw that it had, and felt more miserable and angry and jealous than ever. They would think he had slunk off because he wasn't wanted--which was quite true--instead of believing that he had something very important to do, which was what he had intended they should believe. A cloud of self-doubt settled upon him. Was his mind, after all, worthless, and the little things he had written--rubbish, not potential genius as he had hoped? Jacobsen was right in preferring George's company. George was perfect, physically, a splendid creature; what could he himself claim? "I'm second-rate," he thought--"second-rate, physically, morally, mentally. Jacobsen is quite right." The best he could hope to be was a pedestrian literary man with quiet tastes. NO, no, no! He clenched his hands and, as though to register his resolve before the universe, he said, aloud: "I will do it; I will be first-rate, I will." He was covered with confusion on seeing a gardener pop up, surprised from behind a bank of rose-bushes. Talking to himself--the man must have thought him mad! He hurried on across the lawn, entered the house, and ran upstairs to his room. There was not a second to lose; he must begin at once. He would write something--something that would last, solid, hard, shining. . . . "Damn them all! I will do it, I can . . ." There were writing materials and a table in his room. He selected a pen--with a Relief nib he would be able to go on for hours without getting tired--and a large square sheet of writing-paper. "HATCH HOUSE, BLAYBURY, WILTS. Station: Cogham, 3 miles; Nobes Monacorum, 4½ miles." Stupid of people to have their stationery printed in red, when black or blue is so much nicer! He inked over the letters. He held up the paper to the light; there was a watermark, "Pimlico Bond." What an admirable name for the hero of a novel! Pimlico Bond. . . . "There's be-eef in the la-arder And du-ucks in the pond; Crying dilly dilly, dilly dilly . . ." He bit the end of his pen. "What I want to get," he said to himself, "is something very hard, very external. Intense emotion, but one will somehow have got outside it." He made a movement of hands, arms, and shoulders, tightening his muscles in an effort to express to himself physically that hardness and tightness and firmness of style after which he was struggling!