“Then to hear no more about her. It is as Smeaton said of his lighthouse: her greatest real praise, when the novelty of her inauguration has worn off, is that nothing happens to keep the talk of her alive.”
“Yes, I see,” said Elfride softly and thoughtfully. “But of course it is different quite with men. Why don’t you write novels, Mr. Knight?”
“Because I couldn’t write one that would interest anybody.”
“Why?”
“For several reasons. It requires a judicious omission of your real thoughts to make a novel popular, for one thing.”
“Is that really necessary? Well, I am sure you could learn to do that with practice,” said Elfride with an ex-cathedra air, as became a person who spoke from experience in the art. “You would make a great name for certain,” she continued.
“So many people make a name nowadays, that it is more distinguished to remain in obscurity.”
“Tell me seriously—apart from the subject—why don’t you write a volume instead of loose articles?” she insisted.
“Since you are pleased to make me talk of myself, I will tell you seriously,” said Knight, not less amused at this catechism by his young friend than he was interested in her appearance. “As I have implied, I have not the wish. And if I had the wish, I could not now concentrate sufficiently. We all have only our one cruse of energy given us to make the best of. And where that energy has been leaked away week by week, quarter by quarter, as mine has for the last nine or ten years, there is not enough dammed back behind the mill at any given period to supply the force a complete book on any subject requires. Then there is the self-confidence and waiting power. Where quick results have grown customary, they are fatal to a lively faith in the future.”
“Yes, I comprehend; and so you choose to write in fragments?”