"I have," said Bobby, helping himself to marmalade.
"There's no use saying, 'I have,' and then forgetting. I know you. You're a good sort, Bobby, but you are in the wrong set; you couldn't keep the pace. You've loads of cleverness and you're going to rot. Work!"
"How?"
"Write," said Tozer, who believed in Bobby and hated to see him going to waste. "Write. I've always been urging you to settle down and write."
"I made five pounds ten last year writing," said Bobby.
"I know—articles on old French poetry and so on. You've got to write fiction. You can do it. That little story you wrote for Tillson's was ripping."
"The devil of it is," said Bobby, "I can't find plots. I can write all right if I have only something to write about, but I can't find plots."
"That's rubbish, and pure laziness. Can't find plots, with your experience of London and life! You've got to find plots, and find them sharp; it's the only trade open to you. You can do it, and it pays. Now look here, B. R. I'll finance you——"
"Thanks awfully," said Bobby, helping himself to a cigarette from a box on a little table near by.