‘And then,’ continued the Author, ‘she is to meet the hero; he is to be Tradition, Culture, Development, Conservatism; and there will be, so to speak, no one else in the world except these two forces, and the battle royal will be between these two.’
‘Yes,’ nodded the little Ghost.
‘I think I will write that out before I go any further with the plot.’
‘I would,’ said the little Ghost.
‘Well, here goes,’ said the Author, drawing himself up to the table.
He wrote for some hours; his pen moved ceaselessly over the pages, and from time to time he laid a sheet at the feet of the little Ghost. The clock struck twelve, the clock struck one; the Author’s hair fell lankly over his pale face; on and on went his pen. At two, he looked up and saw the little Ghost sitting, all alert, on the cuff-box, with his blue eyes wide open; he gave a bright little smile in answer to the Author’s glance.
‘Why bless me! I had clean forgotten you! aren’t you tired?’ said the Author.
‘Not in the least; I feel quite fresh.’
‘Upon my word, you look it; I believe you are going to be a tough little chap, and will see me through. And now where will you sleep?’
‘Why, here, anywhere—I am not particular.’