“Not at all, Beach, not at all. Oh, Beach,” he said, as the other started to manœuvre towards the door, “I’ve just remembered. There was something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I thought it might be as well to speak to you about it before approaching Lady Constance. The fact is, Beach, I am feeling cramped.”
“Indeed, sir? I forgot to mention that one of the symptoms from which I suffer is a sharp cramp.”
“Too bad. But let us, if you do not mind, shelve for the moment the subject of your interior organism and its ailments. When I say I am feeling cramped, I mean spiritually. Have you ever written poetry, Beach?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah! Then it may be a little difficult for you to understand my feelings. My trouble is this. Out in Canada, Beach, I grew accustomed to doing my work in the most solitary surroundings. You remember that passage in my Songs of Squalor which begins ‘Across the pale parabola of Joy . . .’?”
“I fear, sir . . .”
“You missed it? Tough luck. Try to get hold of it some time. It’s a bird. Well, that passage was written in a lonely hut on the banks of the Saskatchewan, miles away from human habitation. I am like that, Beach. I need the stimulus of the great open spaces. When I am surrounded by my fellows, inspiration slackens and dies. You know how it is when there are people about. Just as you are starting in to write a nifty, someone comes and sits down on the desk and begins talking about himself. Every time you get going nicely, in barges some alien influence and the Muse goes blooey. You see what I mean?”
“Yes, sir,” said Beach, gaping slightly.