John took one. They smoked in silence for a while. The assistant editor pointed to a portrait on the wall. "That poor devil committed suicide in Brussels last week. He had a net income of £4 per month from this _Review_. Why do people write poetry, why do they write at all? Literature is not a profession, it's a form of vagrancy." "You've been a vagrant?" said John. "How did you know?" "I read your travel books and liked them." "Oh--well, I'm off for good this time. I'm going to Capri where I shall sleep all day and talk all night. Been to Capri? No? Well, it's a good place to fade away in. Are you going to wait for Cane?" "Yes." "He'll come in with a rush and go out with one. He's lunching with the Irish Secretary. He's in such a hurry that he's never sure whether he is in Constantinople, Berlin or Paris. His pet theory just now is the German menace; have you anything on the German menace?" "No--I've--" "That's the line at present. Last month we were Malthusian, this, we are standing for strong language in modern verse, next the German menace--we don't know what after that; the menace may run to two numbers. You will notice I am discreet. That is half my charm. It's now twelve, I think you'd better wait half an hour, and then come out to lunch with me." "Oh thank you, but--" "No, it's not kind of me, as you think. You keep me from being bored with myself. Presently you shall tell me all the ambitions of your white young soul, all the sinks you are going to flush with your flood of zeal, the heights of fame you will scale, the way you propose to pay for board and lodgings, how you'll persuade the publisher you are the infallible boom he is waiting for. But you shall not read me any of your poetry." "I don't write poetry. I told you I didn't," began John. "Almost I am persuaded," said the assistant editor. "But you will; the symptoms are there It is a mental measles you cannot escape." He stacked up the unread manuscripts. "There are poets in that pile who can write like Keats, like Shelley, like Byron, like Wordsworth, and they do it just as well. They've been born too late. What they can't do is to write like themselves. There are over thirty Swinburnes here, and enough suggested immorality to poison the Vatican library. Most of it is written by young ladies." At this moment Mr. Cane came in. He was a little man, going bald, with scrubby moustache. John was about to retire, but he bade him stay. Rapidly he glanced through half a dozen letters on his desk, dictated social acceptances to his typist and then turned to John. "Now--what can I do?" John presented his letter. Cane read it quickly. "You want work, I see. There's none worth having in the literary world. You're well informed, I'm told. Do you know Elverton Thomas?" "I've heard of him." "He wants a secretary who can get points for his speeches. If you like, I'll give you a letter to him at the House of Commons."