o grey, my lad--grey is the colour of life," said the man who
had just come back from cloudless blue skies and gorgeous sunsets.

"Somehow I felt like that when writing, but when I read it I have an
inkling that life is brighter than I have shown it to be; that it's
worth while living both in country and in town."

"It's not for me to advise one who has done so well off his own bat, but
I would suggest that you work the thing out to its bitter end, keeping
true to the artistic impulse which will settle each of the characters
for you, and without you, if you but let it have its sway."

"But it would be a bitter end for two of them."

"Precisely. For all of them, probably. It is for most of us."

"There I don't agree with you. Don't you think the bitter end is at the
beginning? The book ends bitterly at the start, so to speak."

"I do, and I don't object to that in the least. The fact is, you have
subordinated your Philistine nature most wonderfully, and are in a fair
way to produce a work of art, but here the Philistine part of you comes
uppermost at a critical moment, and has its usual fit of remorse at a
piece of genuine art. I would not have credited you with the capacity to
produce such a work as this manuscript contains. That is frank, isn't
it?"

"And I ought to be flattered, I suppose. But I'm not. I've been
disillusioned all along the line, but surely when the illusions fall
away life is not merely a corner for moping in. Besides, is it a worthy
work to disillusionise others?"

"It is. It is the business of sane men to expose for what they are the
fools' paradises of the world."

"Surely not. Let the fools find it out themselves; and if they never do,
the better for them."

"Look here, my young friend, your best plan is to take a holiday at once
and go down home for two or three weeks, to get over this mood of
contrariness. I'm surprised that you've been slogging away in London all
through the stifling summer. It was mere madness. You're suffering from
mental clog. Shake free of Fleet Street for a week or two, and the book
will finish, never fear. Whatever you do, don't have one of those
maudlin, barley-sugar ends. Be true to life, and let all else go.
Perhaps a visit home would supply the contrast necessary to re-start the
mind."

"I've been thinking of that this very day."

"Then my advice is: Go. You're not looking well. London is a hard
task-master, and the slave who runs to the eternal crack of