“I have others.”
“Perhaps not of such sterling quality.”
“Oh, you may be sure of that!” and Lafcadio’s laugh was decidedly impertinent.
“You will suffer for it some day,” returned Julius, a little ruffled by this disrespectful gibing.
“When it will be too late,” Lafcadio finished the sentence with affected gravity; then he asked abruptly: “Does it really amuse you very much to write?”
Julius drew himself up.
“I don’t write for the sake of amusement,” he answered nobly. “The joy that I feel in writing is superior to any that I might find in living. Moreover, the one is not incompatible with the other.”
“So they say,” replied Lafcadio. Then abruptly raising his voice, which he had dropped as though inadvertently: “Do you know what it is I dislike about writing?—All the scratchings out and touchings up that are necessary.”
“Do you think there are no corrections in life too?” asked Julius, beginning to prick up his ears.
“You misunderstand me. In life one corrects oneself—one improves oneself—so people say; but one can’t correct what one does. It’s the power of revising that makes writing such a colourless affair—such a....” (He left his sentence unfinished.) “Yes! that’s what seems to me so fine about life. It’s like fresco-painting—erasures aren’t allowed.”