"Yes. I shall go on writing," Roger answered. He was puzzled by the abruptness and detachment of John's manner. "I've got that Louis Quatorze play finished. I shall start on another in a day or two. I've a novel half finished; I told you the fable, I think. I've not done much since the rehearsals began."
"You'll have a great success some day," said John, half to himself. "You'll be all that Wentworth might have been had he lived. You know Wentworth's work?"
"Yes," Roger said. The question surprised him. John was speaking to him as though he were a stranger. They had discussed Wentworth's work a score of times. "What sort of man was he?" he added.
"A great genius in himself. In his work I don't think he was that, though of course he did wonderful things. You told me once that you were in love. How does that go on?"
"I see her sometimes. I can't ask her to marry me. My prospects—well—I live by writing."
"She is rich, I think you said? She lives in Ireland?"
"Yes."
"Love is the devil!" said John abruptly. "I'm going abroad to-morrow, on account of my lungs. I was wondering if I should see you settled before I left."
"Good Lord! You never told me."
"Wentworth used to say that, socially, the body does not exist. I thought of telling you. But there, there were other reasons. Things which I can't tell you about."