"Well, there may be other reputable papers, though I confess The Spectator is my favourite."
"Yes, I know. It probably would be."
"It's this terrible inaction," his father went on. "I don't know how you can tolerate the ignominious position in which you find yourself. To me it would be unendurable."
Mr. Hazlewood sighed with the satisfaction of unburdening himself and waited for his son to reply, who with a tremendous effort not to spoil the force of his argument by losing his temper began calmly enough:
"I have never contended that I should earn my living by poetry. What I have hoped is that when my first book appears it would be sufficiently remarkable to restore your confidence in me."
"In other words," his father interrupted, "to tempt me to support you—or rather as it now turns out to help you to get married."
"Well, why not?" said Guy. "I'm your only son. You can spare the money. Why shouldn't you help me? I'm not asking you to do anything before I've justified myself. I'm only asking you to wait a year. If my book is a failure, it will be I who pay the penalty, not you. My confidence will be severely damaged whereas in your case only your conceit will be faintly ruffled."
"Were I really a conceited man, I should resent your last remark," said his father. "But let it pass, and finish what you were going to say."
Guy got up and went to the window, seeking to find from the moonlight a coolness that would keep his temper in hand.
"Would you have preferred that I did not ask Pauline to marry, that I made love to her without any intention of marriage?"