Presently he inquired of Jacques: "Anything wrong with you? You are very quiet."
"I search for a plot," sighed our friend; and was long-winded.
"He has been able to think of nothing but the enchanting story that ought to blossom from that flower-pot, and doesn't," I explained. "By this time he might have——"
"The points I ponder are three," Jacques broke in strenuously. "Who, in such environment, has the fingering sensibility to tend a pot of pansies? What does it express to her? How does it happen that she is there?"
"I do not see anything in it," said Henri. "It has no action."
"How the devil can it have action before there is a plot?" screamed Jacques. "I tell you, the atmosphere is superb."
"It is a picture, not a story. There is no material in it," complained Henri. "You have everything to create, except the scene. The scene is good, but——"
We were still discussing the question, sipping vermouth at a café, when someone exclaimed: "Ah, you! How goes it?" And, looking up, I saw that the cordial hand upon the dramatist's shoulder pertained to no less eminent a person than Martime himself.
"Numa!" Henri was delighted; the more so when Martime consented to sit down at our table and sip an apéritif, too.
"Permettez. Two of my oldest friends—monsieur Camus, of L'Elan; monsieur Rouelle, romancier."