Ralph said he thought he'd liked it when he wrote it, but now he didn't know.
"You'll know when you've finished it."
"I don't suppose I shall finish it," he said.
"But you must. You can't not finish a thing like that."
"I own I'd like to. But I can't publish it."
"Why ever not?"
"Oh, it wouldn't be fair to poor old Waddy. After all, I wrote it for him."
"What on earth does that matter? If he doesn't want it. Of course you'll finish it, and of course you'll publish it."
"Well, but it's all Cotswold, you see. And he's Cotswold. If it is any good, you know, I shouldn't like to—to well, get in his way. It's his game. At least he began it."
"It's a game two can play, writing Cotswold books."