“No, sir. Now I won’t be happy until I’ve written a serial for the Atlantic, or some one of the big magazines.”
“Is that the way it works?” laughed Cherry. “The more one gets, the more one wants?”
“That’s the way ambition is built up,” said I, “acceptance by acceptance.”
“What a place to work in this must be,” said Sibthorp, as he allowed Ethel to replenish his plate.
Cherry laughed. “Yes, you ought to see the way Mr. Vernon works. A poem in the morning, a short story in the afternoon, and an essay in the evening.”
Sibthorp turned his glowing eyes on me. “Good boy. Are you really working?”
“Miss Paxton sees fit to jest,” said I. “I’m afraid I haven’t done as much as I might.”
“You couldn’t do less, Philip, seeing you haven’t done a thing since you came up,” said Ethel.
“All the better for winter. But don’t let my example influence you, Sibthorp. I’ll turn you loose with pens and paper, or my typewriter, and you can enrich the literature of this country every minute, if you want to. Only, if you take my advice, you’ll give literachure the go by, and stay out doors for a week or so.”
“I’ll work out doors, but I must work,” said he, his eyes shining.