"Gilbert," he said, "I believe I'm done!"
"Done?" Gilbert exclaimed, putting down the book of poems.
"Yes. I don't believe I shall ever do another book...."
"I can't think of anything. My mind's like pap. I keep on writing and writing, but I only get a pile of words. That was bad enough, but to-day I can't write at all. I simply can't write...."
"Haven't you got a theme?"
"Vaguely, yes, but the thing won't come to life. The people lie about like logs, and ... damn them, they won't move!"
"Look here," said Gilbert, "I'm tired of work. Let's chuck it for a while. You're obviously off colour, and a holiday'll do you good. Let's go out somewhere for the day anyhow. I've a first night this evening. We'll wind up with that!"
"What's the play?" Henry asked.
"A revival. They're bringing Wilde's 'The Ideal Husband' on at the St. James's again," Gilbert answered. "Alexander's very good in it...."