"You can write what I want if you chose—no man better," he was saying. Vane was listening not altogether attentively. His thoughts were elsewhere.
"And supposing I don't choose."
"Then you'll be an arrant fool," sneered Curll angrily. "You're out at elbows. You haven't a penny to bless yourself with. You don't eat, but you can always drink provided you run across a friend who by chance has some money in his pocket. What'll be the end of it all? You'll go down—down among the dregs of Grub Street and you'll never rise again."
"Not so, Mr. Curll," cried Vane hotly. "I've great hopes. I've a tragedy——"
"A tragedy! That for your tragedy."
Curll snapped his fingers scornfully.
"Why, my young friend, supposing you get your tragedy staged, it will be played one night—if extraordinarily successful two nights, or three at the most. What do you think you will get out of it? Nothing. But perhaps you fancy yourself a Congreve or a Farquhar?"
"Neither Congreve nor Farquhar wrote tragedies, sir," retorted Vane stiffly.
"Indeed! What about Mr. Congreve's 'Mourning Bride?'"
"I prefer his comedies, sir."