at you first witnessed my
play?"

Trewlove's eyes ceased to roll, and, meeting mine, withdrew themselves
politely behind impenetrable mists. "The General, sir, was opposed to
theatre-going _in toto_; anathemum was no word for what he thought of it.
And if it had come to _Larks in Aspic_, with your permission I will only
say 'Great Scot!'"

"I may take it then that you did not see the play and surprise my secret
until after his death?".

Trewlove drew himself up with fine reserve and dignity. "There is such a
thing, sir, I 'ope, as Libbaty of Conscience."

With that I let him go. The colloquy had not only done me no service,
but had positively emboldened him--or so I seemed to perceive as the weeks
went on--in his efforts to cast off his old slough and become a travesty
of me, as he had been a travesty of my uncle. I am willing to believe
that they caused him pain. A crust of habit so inveterate as his cannot
be rent without throes, to the severity of which his facial contortions
bore witness whenever he attempted a witticism. Warned by them, I would
sometimes admonish him--

"Mirth without vulgarity, Trewlove!"

"Yessir," he would answer, and add with a sigh, "it's the best sort, sir--
_ad_-mittedly."

But if painful to him, this metamorphosis was torture to my nerves.
I should explain that, flushed with the success of _Larks in Aspic_,
I had cheerfully engaged myself to provide the Duke of Cornwall's with a
play to succeed it. At the moment of signing the contract my bosom's lord
had sat lightly on its throne, for I felt my head to be humming with
ideas. But affluence, or the air of the Cromwell Road, seemed uncongenial
to the Muse.

Three months had slipped away. I had not written a line. My ideas, which
had seemed on the point of precipitation, surrendering to some centrifugal
eddy, slipped one by one beyond grasp. I suppose every writer of
experience knows these vacant terrifying intervals; but they were strange
to me then, and I had not learnt the virtue of waiting. I grew flurried,
and saw myself doomed to be the writer of one play.

In this infirmity the daily presence of Trewlove became intolerable.
There arrived an evening when I found myself toying with the knives at
dinner, and wondering where precisely lay the level of his fifth rib at
the back of my chair.

I dropped the weapon and pushed forward my glass to be refilled.
"Trewlove," said I, "you shall pack for me to-morrow, and send