"About my manuscript," he resumed, his tone brightening a little as he sat down to the table to face Hamish.
Still, for an instant or two, Hamish hesitated. He drew the sheets towards him and turned them over, as if in deliberation what to say.
"You charged me to tell you the truth, Gerald."
"Of course I did," loudly answered Gerald. "The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."
"Well, Gerald, I should not but for your earnest wish, and that it is I suppose the more real kindness to do so, as it may prevent you from wasting time upon another. I am afraid it won't do, old friend."
"What won't do?" asked Gerald, with wide-open eyes that showed the wonder in them.
Delicately, gently, considerately, as he could have imparted ill news to the dearest friend he had on earth, Hamish Channing told him the story would not do, would not, at least, be a success, and pointed out why he thought so. The book was full of mistakes and faults; these for the most part he passed lightly over: speaking rather of the defects of the work as a whole.
"Go on; let's have it all," said Gerald, when there was a pause: and Hamish saw nothing of the suppressed passion, or of the irony that lay at the bottom of the following words. "You think I cannot succeed in fiction?"
"Not in a long work----"
"Why the work's a short one," interrupted Gerald.