let me see it?"

The first draft of the book was already in type, and, though Eric hated
his work to be seen before he had set the last polish on it, the new
indecision and weakness of will allowed him to be overpersuaded.
Gaisford brought back the manuscript at the end of three days and talked
of neurotic impressionism and the methods of literary jerry-builders.

"I hope you're not writing yourself out," he added.

Eric was frightened for the first time since the "Divorce" placed him
beyond the reach of want. So many men seemed capable of one play or
novel--and then no more.

"One can't always be at concert-pitch," he sighed.

"Then you mustn't go on to the platform till you are."

"It's easy to see you've never been a journalist! The agony, the
violence to soul, when you _have_ to come up to scratch, when your copy
_has_ to be delivered by a certain hour! Writing without time to revise
or even to read what you've already written--the compositors setting up
the beginning of an article while you're still writing the middle. . . .
And the public pays its twopence and expects us to be always at our
best!"

"Well, the public pays me its two guineas and expects _me_ to be always
at _my_ best," grunted the doctor. "If I'm off colour, I take things
quietly. Otherwise I should defraud the public and ruin my practice at
the same time. You must take things quietly until you're fit to work
again."

After he had gone, Eric tried to make up his mind what to do. His
thoughts ran uncontrolled to painters whose sight had become impaired
and composers who had lost their hearing. If _he_ had done violence to
the indefinable blend of gift and acquisition which separated the man
who could write from those who could not . . . This was a thing to be
tested. The scenario of "The Singing-Bird" was ready; he had only been
waiting because there was no hurry for another play. There was now every
hurry to establish whether he could write a play. If Manders turned up
his nose, it would be time indeed for a holiday.

For three months Eric buried himself in his flat, only emerging at the
week-end. Lashmar Mill-House gave him proximity to Agnes Waring; and
every week he made an excuse to walk over to Red Roofs and ask for
tidings of Jack. The news that he was alive seemed better than the
suspense of no news; but the tyranny of love was strange when a man
could pray for the death of a friend. The Warings' atmosphere of
dignified expectancy