the other day in a very depressed state.

"Look at these munition workers," he said. "See what the Government is
doing for them. Paying them wages all the time that they're out of work.
What about me?"

"Well, you weren't on munitions."

"I have been on intellectual munitions," replied Simmons. "And now all
my editors write to me, 'Get away from the War.' I have to transfer my
machinery to peace work. I have to turn away from the production of the
German spy. Think of it. I have almost lived on him for years. I have
created hundreds of him during the War. All my laboriously acquired
knowledge of German terms--like '_Schweinhund_,' you know--goes for
nothing. I shall have to make all my villains Bolsheviks. That will
require close study of Russia. All my old Russian knowledge goes for
nothing. They have abolished the knout and exile to Siberia. I have to
start afresh.

"Then look at my heroes. I have mastered the second lieutenant. My
typewriter almost automatically writes 'old top,' 'old soul,' 'old
bean,' 'old egg.' All my study of this type is thrown away. And
heroines--why, I shall have to study dress again. The hospital nurse is
done for; the buxom proportions of the land-girl avail me no more.
My dear fellow, it will be six months before I can deal with women's
costume competently.

"And plots. How the War simplified everything. The Zep, a failure in
fact, was a splendid success in fiction. The awkward people could be
wiped out so simply. Then one's villains could die gallantly--a bit of
good in the worst of men, you know--whispering a hurried confession in
the ears of the Company Sergeant-Major in the front trenches.

"Then, again, all misunderstandings were explained when the V.C. looked
up from his hospital bed. 'Eric,' she gushed, 'you here!' And from that
moment he needed no more medicine. My dear fellow, we shall want new
plots now; real plots and new characters. It will be a long time before
I can return to my pre-war standard of strong, silent, masterful
millionaires from the backwoods. Haven't I a right to seek compensation
from the Government for checking my intellectual output?"

"I think the Government ought to pay you ten pounds for every week in
which you don't write," I said.

Simmons shook me warmly by the hand.

The next day he cut me dead. I believe that Simmons, though an author of
popular fiction, must have been thinking.

* * * * *

"THE FUTURE OF L