When we were alone, “My darling,” said James, “we must wait. Tomorrow I catch the boat for Weymouth. I shall go straight to London. My first manuscript shall be in an editor’s hands on Wednesday morning. I will go, but I will come back.” I put my arms round his neck. “My love,” I said, “I trust you. Go. Always remember that I know you will succeed.” I kissed him. “And when you have succeeded, come back.” CHAPTER 3 A HARMLESS DECEPTION _(Miss Margaret Goodwin’s narrative continued)_ They say that everyone is capable of one novel. And, in my opinion, most people could write one play. Whether I wrote mine in an inspiration of despair, I cannot say. I wrote it. Three years had passed, and James was still haggling with those who buy men’s brains. His earnings were enough just to keep his head above water, but not enough to make us two one. Perhaps, because everything is clear and easy for us now, I am gradually losing a proper appreciation of his struggle. That should never be. He did not win. But he did not lose; which means nearly as much. For it is almost less difficult to win than not to lose, so my mother has told me, in modern journalistic London. And I know that he would have won. The fact that he continued the fight as he did was in itself a pledge of ultimate victory. What he went through while trying with his pen to make a living for himself and me I learned from his letters. “London,” he wrote, “is not paved with gold; but in literary fields there are nuggets to be had by the lightest scratching. And those nuggets are plays. A successful play gives you money and a name automatically. What the ordinary writer makes in a year the successful dramatist receives, without labour, in a fortnight.” He went on to deplore his total lack of dramatic intuition. “Some men,” he said, “have some of the qualifications while falling short of the others. They have a sense of situation without the necessary tricks of technique. Or they sacrifice plot to atmosphere, or atmosphere to plot. I, worse luck, have not one single qualification. The nursing of a climax, the tremendous omissions in the dialogue, the knack of stage characterisation—all these things are, in some inexplicable way, outside me.” It was this letter that set me thinking. Ever since James had left the island, I had been chafing at the helplessness of my position. While he toiled in London, what was I doing? Nothing. I suppose I helped him in a way. The thought of me would be with him always, spurring him on to work, that the time of our separation might be less. But it was not enough. I wanted to be _doing_ something.... And it was during these restless weeks that I wrote my play.