There was a silence.
“Good God, Mike,” he burst out, “do you think I’m done for?”
“I think not,” drawled the other.
“Because—I can’t work. I can’t. I seem to be in a sort of nightmare state of mind.... Did you ever feel that the world’s askew and everything out of proportion?”
“No, I never did. Something has happened to you, Barry.”
“Nothing—important.... No.... But I’m rather scared about my work. You know those stories I did for you? I hate them!”
“You ungrateful young devil, they made you.”
“What did they make me?”
“A best-seller—for one item. A fine workman for another——”
“Mike! Who cares for good workmanship in these days? Who understands it when he sees it? Who does it?