"You know," he continued, "I had a great idea for a novel——"
He paused and looked up at me, smiling rather sheepishly.
"Well, I started it——"
"You have!"
"Yes, I got the first two paragraphs written. And there I stuck. You see I didn't know where to get hold; and then I thought I'd jump right into the middle of the action, where it was hottest and most interesting—but I found that my hero insisted on explaining everything to the heroine, and wouldn't do anything, and then, when I tried to think how I should have it all come out, I found it didn't have any end, either. I leave it to you, David, how any man is going to write a novel which he can neither get into nor get out of?"
His face wore such a rueful, humorous look that I laughed aloud.
"It looks funny, I know," he said, "but it's really no laughing matter. It seems to me I'm a complete fizzle."
"At twenty-five, Nort! And all this beautiful world around you! Why, you've only to reach out your hand and take what you want."
I shall never forget the look on Nort's face as he leaned forward in his chair, nor the words that seemed to be wrung out of his very soul:
"That's all right as philosophy, David, but I—want—Anthy."