"My mind's about as fully occupied as it will stand," he answered as we left the dining-room and went in search of our coats.
As I was staying at the Savoy and he was living in Adelphi Terrace, our homeward roads were the same. We started in silence, and before we had gone five yards I knew the grey-white powder would be called in aid that night. He was in a state of acute nervous excitement; the arm that linked itself in mine trembled appreciably through two thicknesses of coat, and I could feel him pressing against my side like a frightened woman. Once he begged me not to repeat our recent conversation.
As we entered the Strand, the sight of the theatres gave me a fresh train of thought.
"You ought to write a book, Seraph," I said with the easy abruptness one employs in advancing these general propositions.
"What about?"
"Anything. Novel, play, psychological study. Look here, my young friend, psychology in literature is the power of knowing what's going on in people's minds, and being able to communicate that knowledge to paper. How many writers possess the power? If you look at the rot that gets published, the rot that gets produced at the theatres, my question answers itself. At the present day there aren't six psychologists above the mediocre in all England; barring Henry James there's been no great psychologist since Dostoievski. And this power that other people attain by years of heart-breaking labour and observation, comes to you—by some freak of nature—ready made. You could write a good book, Seraph; why don't you?"
"I might try."
"I know what that means."
"I don't think you do," he answered. "I pay a lot of attention to your advice."
"Thank you," I said with an ironical bow.