"Jetzt geht das Wetter los!" quoted Quarren, dropping into a seat by the fire. "Where is this particular area of low depression centred, Karl?"
"Over my damn book. The papers insist it's a livre-à-clef; and I am certain the thing is selling on that account! I tell you it's humiliating. I've done my best as honestly as I know how, and not one critic even mentions the philosophy of the thing; all they notice is the mere story and the supposed resemblance between my characters and living people! I'm cursed if I ever——"
"Oh, shut up!" said Quarren tranquilly. "If you're a novelist you write to amuse people, and you ought to be thankful that you've succeeded."
"Confound it!" roared Westguard, "I write to instruct people! not to keep 'em from yawning!"
"Then you've made a jolly fluke of it, that's all—because you have accidentally written a corking good story—good enough and interesting enough to make people stand for the cold chunks of philosophical admonition with which you've spread your sandwich—thinly, Heaven be praised!"
"I write," said Westguard, furious, "because I've a message to deliv——"
"'I write,' said Westguard, furious, 'because I have a message to deliv—'"
"Help!" moaned Quarren. "You write because it's in you to do it; because you've nothing more interesting to do; and because it enables you to make a decent and honourable living!"