“Are you not dissuading me from venturing to come to London as a writer?”
After a moment’s hesitation he said with a smile:
“Yes! I believe I am.”
“I was smiling to think,” I said, “that if I had not known the accuracy and wisdom of all you have said I should have been here long ago!”
That seemed to interest him; he was far too clever a man to waste time on a fool. Presently he said:
“Now, why do you think it better to be in London? Could you not write to me, for instance, from Dublin?”
“Oh! yes, I could write well enough, but I have known that game for some time. I know the joy of the waste-paper basket and the manuscript returned—unread. Now Mr. Knowles,” I went on, “may I ask you something?”
“Certainly!”
“You are, if I mistake not, a Scotchman?” He nodded acquiescence, keeping his eye on me and smiling as I went on:
“And yet you came to London. You have not done badly either, I understand? Why did you come?”