I had heard on the Riviera during the winter that Smithers had tried to buy a play from him, so one day I brought up the subject.
"By the way, Smithers says that you have been working on your play; you know the one I mean, the one with the great screen scene in it."
"Oh, yes, Frank," he remarked indifferently.
"Won't you tell me what you've done?" I asked. "Have you written any of it?"
"No, Frank," he replied casually, "it's the scenario Smithers talked about."
A little while afterwards he asked me for money. I told him I could not afford any at the moment, and pressed him to write his play.
"I shall never write again, Frank," he said. "I can't, I simply can't face my thoughts. Don't ask me!" Then suddenly: "Why don't you buy the scenario and write the play yourself?"
"I don't care for the stage," I replied; "it's a sort of rude encaustic work I don't like; its effects are theatrical!"
"A play pays far better than a book, you know—"
But I was not interested. That evening thinking over what he had said, I realised all at once that a story I had in mind to write would suit "the screen scene" of Oscar's scenario; why shouldn't I write a play instead of a story? When we met next day I broached the idea to Oscar: