“Shall I help you out?” said Taggart, turning round his chair, and looking at me.
“If you like,” said I.
“To write something grand,” said Taggart, taking snuff; “to be stared at—lifted on people’s shoulders—”
“Well,” said I, “that is something like it.”
Taggart took snuff. “Well,” said he, “why don’t you write something grand?”
“I have,” said I.
“What?” said Taggart.
“Why,” said I, “there are those ballads.”
Taggart took snuff.
“And those wonderful versions from Ab Gwilym.”