“Oh, George has worked awfully hard,” said Shaw reasonably. “I don’t suppose there is a more conscientious artist living. He has dug out of himself everything there was to be got. No one could have tried more. As a worker, George is magnificent. But, really, when you suggest a book——”
“No! No! I don’t suggest it for one moment,” I interrupted.
“Then what are we discussing?”
“Well, in the first instance, my publishers suggested——”
“Ha! ‘In the first instance!’ No; it really cannot be done. If you wish to write the book nobody, of course, can stop you, but if you do you must not expect me to countenance it. I shall wash my hands of the whole business.”
And, in spite of some further conversation, that remained his unshakable attitude.
An hour later he walked with me down to the station, [21] ]I resolving all the way that I would persuade my publisher to accept two books. Shaw droned on about Sidney Webb and the Fabian Society.... So many people have talked to me of Sidney Webb. I wonder why. I have heard Sidney Webb speak; he knows all about figures and dates and money and wages, and so on.... But of human nature he knows nothing; he knows less than a child, for a child has at least intuition. Figures don’t go very far, do they? Of course, by manipulation, you can make them go all the way....
But, as I was saying, Shaw talked about Fabianism and Webbism all the way to the station.
He was good enough to wait till the train started, and the last I saw of him as I leant through the window was a long, lean figure standing under a lamp. The figure wore no overcoat, but I noticed, even when a hundred yards separated us, a pair of thick, home-knitted woollen gloves....
. . . . . . . .