"I cannot advise you the one way or the other. I am merely forewarning you that, if you insist upon writing books, you will get what you wanted." He smiled now, brightly, intimately, strangely. "I see: but isn't that also in the one way which matters," he demanded of me, "true?" And I smiled back at him. "Yes," I admitted, "it seems true in the one way which matters, also." "Why, then," said he, "I reckon I had better keep right on with _The Eagle's Shadow_." And after that he went quite suddenly away. He returned, I imagine, to 1902 or thereabouts. I hope he did, for his sake. There was a rather nice girl awaiting him, back there in 1902. Then, in addition to her, he would have the facile, false inspirations of _The Eagle's Shadow_ to play with, I reflected, as I went back, a little saddened somehow, to concocting the needed epilogue for the long Biography of Dom Manuel's life.... § 97 But that queer boy's brief visit had quite broken my train of thought. His passing seemed, indeed, to have disproved my train of thought. For the instant I had proved, to my own satisfaction, that what I, in common with all creative writers, got out of writing was, exactly, nothing,--at that same moment he had appeared with his mild, bleated, so respectful question, "Would you advise me, sir, to become a writer--now?" And I had answered his question. I had failed, at least, to advise him not to become "a regular writer." I had, virtually, admitted that were my youth restored to me, as Jurgen's was, and had I my life to muddle through all over again, I would, still somewhat in the Jurgenic manner, repeat its unprofitable dedication. I could not deny to him, I could not truthfully deny to anybody, that, in the one way which really seemed to count, I had in the end got what I wanted. § 98