“Why don’t you write a really-and-truly play?” she asked, one night on their way back to the Community House.
He attempted to turn the question aside. “Hawkins is writing one, according to office gossip,” he said. Hawkins was the young dramatic critic of the Chronicle.
“Well, if Hawkins can write a play—!” she said.
“All right,” he assented cheerfully, “I’ll wait and see if Hawkins can!”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “You know what I think, Felix?”
“I never have any idea what you’re going to think. What is it this time?”
“I think you’ve had your feelings hurt, somehow, back where you came from. In regard to writing. Something has made you afraid to show what you can do.”
There was something quaintly maternal in her manner which almost took the sting out of that word afraid. But Felix hardened. “Well, why don’t you write a play?” he countered.
“Don’t be brutal, Felix. You know—and I know—that I’m not up to it. I can do little things. I can’t do a big thing. And you can.”
“It’s nice of you to be so sure, Rose-Ann. But I’m not. Or rather, I’m pretty sure I can’t. So there.”