Henry got up from his chair, and went across to his father and took hold of his shoulder affectionately. "No, father, I'm not," he answered.
"Yes, you are, I tell you. You're clean cracked!..."
"I've written one novel already."
Mr. Quinn threw out his hands in a despairing gesture. "Oh, well," he said, "if you've committed yourself.... Where is it?"
"It's upstairs in my room. The manuscript, I mean. Of course, it hasn't been published yet."
A servant came into the room to clear away the remains of the breakfast, and Mr. Quinn got up from his chair and walked through the open window on to the terrace.
"What's it about?" he said to Henry who had followed him.
"Oh, love!" Henry answered, seating himself beside his father.
Mr. Quinn grunted. "Huh!" he said, gazing intently at the gravel. "Is it sloppy?"
"I don't think so, father. At least, I hope it isn't!"