“That is a bad way of beginning the day,” said Jonah Wood, shaking his head. “You will derange your digestion by these habits. It is idle to try such experiments on the human frame.”
“It was quite an unwilling experiment. I forgot all about eating. I had some work that had to be done and so I put it through.”
“More articles?” inquired his father with kindly interest.
“I believe I am writing a book,” said George. “It is a new sensation and very exhilarating, but I cannot tell you anything about it till I have got on with it further.”
“A book, eh? Well, I wish you success, George. I hope you are well prepared and that you will do nothing hasty or ill considered.”
“No, indeed!” exclaimed George with a laugh.
Hasty and ill considered! Could any two epithets better describe the way in which he had gone to work? What rubbish it would be when it was finished, he thought, as he attacked the cold meat and pickles. He realised that he was desperately hungry, and unaccountably gay considering that he anticipated a total failure, and it was surprising that while he believed that he had been producing trash he should be in such a hurry to finish his meal in order to produce more. Nothing, however, seemed to be of the slightest importance, except to write as fast as he could in order to have plenty of manuscript to read to Constance at the first opportunity.
That night before going to bed he sat down in a comfortable chair, lit a pipe and read over what he had written. It must be very poor stuff, of course, he considered, because he had turned it out so quickly; but he experienced one of the great pleasures of his life in reading it over. The phrases sent thrills of satisfaction through him and his hand trembled as he took up one sheet after another. It was strange that he should be able to take such delight in what must manifestly be so bad. But, bad or not, the thing was alive, and the characters were his companions, whispering in his ear the words that they were to speak, and bringing with them their individual atmospheres, while a sort of secondary and almost unconscious imagination performed the scene-shifting in a smooth and masterly fashion.
Three days later, he sat beside Constance Fearing upon a wooden bench in a retired nook in Central Park. The weather was gloriously beautiful, and the whole world smelt of violets and sunshine. Everything was fresh and peaceful, and the stillness was broken only by the voices of laughing children who played together a hundred yards away from where the pair were sitting.
“And now, begin,” said Constance eagerly, as George produced his folded manuscript.