He said nothing to that, but stared fixedly in front of him.
"I'm in a bad mood," he said. "I've been trying for weeks to get on with a novel. Just a fortnight ago a young man and a young woman took shelter from the rain in the doorway of a deserted house—they're still there now, and they haven't said a word to one another all that time."
"Why not?" asked Maggie.
"They simply won't speak," he answered her.
"Well then, I should start another story," said Maggie brightly.
"Ah," he said, shaking his head. "What's the use of starting one if you know you're never going to finish it, what's the use of finishing it if you know no one is ever going to read it?" Maggie shook her head.
"You've changed. When I saw you last you told me that you didn't mind whether any one ever read them or not, and that you just wrote them because you loved doing them."
"Every author," said Mr. Magnus gloomily, "says that to himself when he can't sell his books, but it's all vainglory, I'm afraid."
"I can't help being glad," Maggie answered. "There are such interesting things you might do. I can't imagine why any one writes books now when there are so many already in existence that nobody's read."
He wasn't listening to her. He looked up suddenly and said quite wildly: