"Nothing as yet." But I had already determined that it should not long remain unset. I mean, in these days one simply can't afford to go chucking gems about in gratuitous conversation. The difficulty was what exactly to do with it. The sparkling _causerie_ was my first idea. That evening I refilled my fountain-pen, opened a fresh packet of foolscap, and began:-- "AGRICULTURE AND ÆSTHETICS. "It has been wittily observed that for a man to start farming because----" But there the adverb began to worry me. After all, perhaps it wasn't quite so witty as I had hoped, or at least others might not think it so. And in any case I got no personal credit. Subsequent pages recorded other attempts, as--"Who was the cynical philosopher who----?" or "It may perhaps be objected by the prudent that for a man to start----" After this I must have decided against starting at all, for nothing more came of the _causerie_. My next attempt took the form of fiction. I resolved to enshrine the masterpiece in a short story. "The Farm that Failed" seemed to me, and does still, an attractive title. You see the idea of it? Pastoral humour; George, as an amateur husbandman, scored off by sheep and confused by cows. Arrival of town friend, _Amber Dextrius_, on visit. Some sort of love interest. And finally the Epigram. "Ah, my dear fellow," said _Dextrius_, as he flung away his cigarette, "after all you have only proved the great truth that----" And so on. It looked promising. I hardly know why I abandoned it. Perhaps the love interest proved an obstacle. Perhaps I feared lest George (that good sort) should detect himself and be hurt. Anyhow it got no further. The inspiration that followed had even less fortune. It is represented by a sheet headed:-- "THE BUCOLICS. (_A Fantastic Comedy in Five Acts._) [ACT I.--_Morning-room of_ Lord Amber Dextrius' _house in Hill Street, W. A large luxuriously-furnished apartment. Doors in right and left wall. Two doors in back wall. Three windows also in back wall. The light is that of a brilliant morning in May._] _Enter_ Lord Amber, _a handsome faultlessly-dressed man of about five-and-thirty. He walks towards the door_ L." But he never reached it. Perhaps an entire ignorance of what he should do when he got there paralysed him, as it did his creator. After all, you can hardly run a five-Act comedy on stage directions and a single epigram, though I admit that the attempt has been made. So there the thing rested. From time to time I had wild ideas of advertising it in the literary papers: "For sale, original epigram, mint condition, wide application, never been used. Cheap; or would accept typewriter, or workable film-plots." But even then I might have no offers. I began to think that my little property was going to prove unrealisable. But only yesterday something happened.