He returned to his room in Endell Street and flung himself face downward on the bed, where he lay with heaving shoulders for a long, long while. Presently he turned round and sat bolt upright. “Everybody is against me, and I’m against everybody.” On the table before him was a heap of books and a pile of papers, odd jottings, queer little articles, scraps of poetry written in the after-theatre hours. With a sudden fury he kicked at the table-leg and sent them tumbling and fluttering to the floor. “Why do I hate the world when I want to exalt it? Oh, God—God—God! Damn this room! Oh, I’m lonely, I am so—so horribly lonely!” He went and stood in the corner, rested his head on the faded wallpaper, and sniffed: “I’m lonely—lonely—lonely—lonely—lonely! I don’t think I’m very strong—I think I’m ill—ill and lonely—lonely and ill—very ill, and very lonely!” Then suddenly he burst out laughing: “Fool!—idiot!—I’m all right! Papers all over the place. Pick ’em up. What’s all this rot about?” He read a few lines in his own handwriting: “A good sort is the type of man with whom we trust our sisters—a bad sort is the type of man with whom our sisters trust themselves!’ Epigram! Too long! ‘A sport is a man who says Cherio, and carries his brains in a cigarette case.’ Necktie would be better. Oh! what’s the good of writing this rubbish? What am I going to do now?” He snatched a hat and went out. Presently he found himself in Pen and Ink Square, with the ceaseless grumble of the news-producing engines throbbing in the air. Before him was a doorway over which was written “_The Oracle_.” He knew “_The Oracle_” for a democratic organ which shrieked obscenely at the politics and morals of the country—under the guise of seeking to purify, it contrived to include in its columns some very prurient matter, without which its sales would have been even smaller than they were. Wynne walked straight in, mounted some stairs, and beholding a door labelled “Editor—Private,” entered without knocking. “Who the devil are you?” said a stout man sitting before a roll-top desk. “You wouldn’t know if I told you,” replied Wynne. “I’m nobody yet.” “What d’you want?” “Thought I’d write some articles for you.” “Think again—outside!” “Might not get in so easily another time.” “Well, get out now, then.” “That’s very foolish. How d’you know I may not be bringing you a fortune?” “I’m prepared to take the risk.” “Then take a smaller one, and give me a subject to write you a sample about.” “Write about damn nuisances,” said the editor. “Give me a sheet of paper.” “Look here! Are you going to get out?” “No. You told me to write about damn nuisances, and I’m going to do it.” At this the editor leant back in his chair and said: “Well, if you haven’t a profound cheek—” Realizing the opening, Wynne seated himself before a vacant table and took up a pen. “Paper and silence,” he said, “are the ingredients required, and you shall have your article in an hour’s time.”