...
'I must go down and work,' he said at length, rising and fumbling with
the door handle. He seemed disappointed a little. He had given out his
ideas so freely, perhaps too freely. Rogers divined he had not
sympathised enough. His manner had been shamefully absent-minded. The
absent-mindedness was really the highest possible praise, but the
author did not seem to realise it.
'It's glorious, my dear fellow, glorious,' Rogers added emphatically.
'You've got a big idea, and you can write it too. You will.' He said
it with conviction. 'You touch my heart as you tell it. I congratulate
you. Really I do.'
There was no mistaking the sincerity of his words and tone. The other
came back a step into the room again. He stroked his beard and felt
the crisp, hard crumb. He picked it out, examining it without
surprise. It was no unfamiliar thing, perhaps; at any rate, it was an
excuse to lower his eyes. Shyness returned upon him.
'Thank you,' he said gently; 'I'm glad you think so. You see, I
sometimes feel--perhaps--my work has rather suffered from--been a
little deficient in--the human touch. One must reach people's hearts
if one wants big sales. So few have brains. Not that I care for money,
or could ever write for money, for that brings its own punishment in
loss of inspiration.
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