Johnny grinned more, supposing that she meant the little Yids.
'My books, I mean,' Jane added quickly.
'Oh, your books.'
'They're going to be better than yours, my dear,' said Jane. 'Wait and see…. But I dare say they won't be as good as this.' She appraised Charles with her eyes.
'But, oh, so much less trouble,' she added, swinging him up and down.
'I could have one as good as that,' said Johnny thoughtfully, 'with no trouble at all.'
'You'd have to work for it and keep it. And its mother. You wouldn't like that, you know…. Of course you ought to. It's your duty. Every young man who survives…. Daddy says so. You'd better do it, John. You're getting on, you know.'
Young men hate getting on. They hate it, really, more than young women do. Youth is of such immense value, in almost any career, but particularly to the young writer.
But Johnny only said, with apparent nonchalance, 'Twenty-seven is not very old.' He added, however, 'Anyhow, you're five minutes older, and I've published a book, if you have produced that thing.'
Johnny was frankly greedy about his book. He hung on reviews; he asked for it in bookshops, and expressed astonishment and contempt when they had not got it. And it was, after all, nothing to make a song about, Jane thought. It wasn't positively discreditable to its writer, like most novels, but it was a very normal book, by a very normal cleverish young man. Johnny wasn't sure that his publishers advertised it as much as was desirable.