"Oh—beautiful!" Carr shrugged his shoulders; no doubt of it, the reader was inclined to be old-fashioned. "All the same, Temple, I don't think you hate books; only other people's books. Why don't you write one yourself?"
"To add to the output of rubbish?"
"Thank you," laughed the author of "Piccadilly," then turned to Alexander, who, very sleek and immaculate, was in the act of hanging up his hat.
"Morning, Alex. Feel like contemplating a new series of explosions for the White 'un?"
"Yours?"
"No. Discovery of mine. Polish woman. I want to show some of her stuff to Campbell; it's soul-shattering."
"Then don't show it to him," languidly protested the junior partner; "already the journal is likely to be poison to the average intelligence. I intend asking Ethel Erskine to contribute an antidote." This, unaware of the letter reposing at the foot of the nearest pillar-box. Beneath his attitude of careful restraint, Vincent Alexander concealed an appreciation of talent as quick and keen as Campbell's own; but he considered the chief ought not to be indulged. With a careless "good morning" to Temple, he drew Carr through the swing-door marked "private."
Gareth sighed. Though he would not have owned it for worlds, had never owned it even to himself, he did sometimes long to be admitted into the charmed circle; the splendid bumptious fellowship of creators. To be acknowledged One of Them; himself to swagger into publishers' offices, pass the reader with a casual nod, sit on the tables and swing his legs and patronize young aspirants to fame. To have Leslie Campbell call him "my boy," and be in the confidence of Vincent Alexander; initiated into whatever literary scheme was afoot—nay, himself boldly to propound these schemes, and have them heard with respect. One of "Campbell's Young Men." One of Them....
He did not often sit dreaming thus. His sixteen years as reader had drained him not only of ambition, but of a great deal of his happy illusions. At whiles, he used to ask himself why he continued this especial work which had turned to drab substance what was once his fabric of enchantment. It was so difficult to break away from things. Gareth remained a reader. And the past few years had hardened him to mechanical acquiescence.
But his recent outbreak to Graham Carr seemed again to loosen discontent. Without thought of rebellion, merely with the mournful recognition upon him of how far he stood from the inner shrine of fellowship, he sat idly at his desk, hearing the occasional laughter which drifted from the room beyond. Even young Burnett was allowed at these confabulations; a mere boy of nineteen, he was engrossed in the writing of an "Episode in the Life of a Navvy," backed by the hearty encouragement of his two chiefs. Yes, Burnett had started already—and he, Gareth, was now in his fortieth year. Why had he never written his great book? Perhaps Carr had been right in saying that other people's books had swamped him entirely.