§ 95
"Why do you do it, sir?" the boy asked now, almost reproachfully. "You get a plenty of pleasure out of life, don't you? and what did you want, anyhow, that you never got?"
"Yes: and I don't know," I admitted, seriatim.
"Well, then, why don't you write some books that will make people see the world is a pretty good sort of place after all?"
"But surely it does not require two persons to point out such an obvious geographical feature? Cannot posterity rely upon you, by and by, to diffuse that truism single-handed?"
"I certainly do hope so," he replied. Now his voice changed. "For I would like to write the very nicest sort of books,—like Henry Harland's and Justus Miles Forman's and Anthony Hope's. They would be about beautiful fine girls and really splendid young men, and everything would come out all right in the end, so they could get married, and not be sort of bitter and smart-alecky and depress people the way"—he coughed,—"the way some people do."
"Young man," I started out severely, "it is quite evident you are not married—"
To which he countered, now I think of it, rather staggeringly. "But you, sir, are not in love. You never will be, sir, not ever any more."
I said: "Yes; that does make a difference. I remember." Then I said: "Stop talking bosh! and stop calling me 'sir'! I'm not your grandfather. It is rather the other way round. And, besides, we were talking about books. Well, you may try, if you like, to write the blithering kind of novel you describe. But, somehow, I don't think you will ever succeed at it."
"You ought to know best, sir, of course, about my abilities. And so, if you would really and truly advise me—Still, I would certainly like to be a real author—"