“If I'd let you do exactly what you had the whim for, what would you do?”
Bibbs looked startled; then timidity overwhelmed him—a profound shyness. He bent his head and fixed his lowered eyes upon the toe of his shoe, which he moved to and fro upon the rug, like a culprit called to the desk in school.
“What would you do? Loaf?”
“No, sir.” Bibbs's voice was almost inaudible, and what little sound it made was unquestionably a guilty sound. “I suppose I'd—I'd—”
“Well?”
“I suppose I'd try to—to write.”
“Write what?”
“Nothing important—just poems and essays, perhaps.”
“That all?”
“Yes, sir.”