“That title will grow on you,” said Morning, who began to like the interview. “I shall come to take the play to-morrow—unless you decide to keep it and bring it out this Fall——”
“Why did you come to Markheim again? Have you tried all the rest?”
“There was something unfinished about our former brush—I didn’t like the feel of it.... My play is done over better. Neither copy has been submitted—except to Markheim.”
“Your play may be as bad as before.”
“Yes. It looks better to me, however.”
“You’ve got a war play again——”
“That first and second act.”
“You can’t write war. This is not war——”
Morning did not realize the change that had come over him until he recalled the shame and rebellion that had risen in his mind when Markheim had said this before.... Something had come to him from Duke Fallows, or from Betty Berry, or from the hill silences. He was a new creature.... Must one be detached somewhat from the world in order to use it? This was his sense at the moment: that he could compel the mind before him, reinforced as it was by distaste for everything decent, and manifesting the opinions of other men, including Reever Kennard’s. There was no irritation whatsoever; no pride in being a war-writer, good or bad. Markheim’s denial had no significance in the world above or water beneath. He saw, however, that he must change Markheim’s idea, and that he must do it by beating Markheim in his own particular zone of activity.
There was a certain fun in this. He arose and stood by the other’s chair. The eye-balls showed wider and rolled heavily. The pistol or bomb was never far from his mind. Morning looked down at him, saying quietly: