And he wrote.
When it was finished Carpentaria wiped his brow and drank a whisky and milk which Juliette had prepared for him. He sighed with content and exhaustion. The creative crisis was over.
“Play it,” he ejaculated.
And Juliette sat down at the piano near the window overlooking the magnificent gardens, and played softly the two hundred and forty-seventh’ opus of Carpentaria.
“It is lovely,” she said.
“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s a classy little thing. Came to me just like that!” He snapped his fingers.
“Your best ones always do,” Juliette smiled.
“I’ll have that performed this very night,” he stated.