'
'You can't do that so well nowadays,' returned Henry, who seemed in
pessimistic vein, 'owing to the present demand for getting well-known
names attached to articles. We write them all the same, of course, but
it's the people with the well-known names that get the credit for
having a good literary style. Well, I always put the best of myself
into my work--I can't write anything in a hasty, slovenly manner--but
where does it lead to? Some day, perhaps, my ideas will give out and
then----' he made a little hopeless gesture.
He was silent a moment, staring out of the window. 'Then there's
another thing,' he went on, 'this constant grind leaves me no time to
get on with my play. If I could only get it finished it might bring me
success--even fame. But how shall I ever get the leisure to complete
it?'
A feeling of compunction swept over me. I went up to him and put my
hand on his shoulder. 'Henry, dear old chap, I never thought you felt
like this about things.' Certainly he was writing a play, but as he
had been engaged on it now for over ten years (Henry is a conscientious
writer), my interest in it was not so keen as it had been when he first
told me of the idea a decade previously.
'Couldn't you do a little of your play every evening after dinner?' I
suggested.
'I'm too brain weary by that time--my ideas seem to have given out.
Sometimes I think I must renounce the notion of going on with it--and
it's been one of my greatest ambitions.
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