“I gathered as much from his appearance to-night. It was the first time I’d seen him 190 in nearly a year. You know the whole story between Armstrong and myself, I take it?”
“Yes,” once more.
“And your sympathy is naturally with him.”
“It has been.”
“And now—”
The smile that made Randall’s face boyish came into being.
“I’m deferring judgment now—and observing.”
“I fear I can’t help you much there,” said Darley, shortly. “I wished to discuss the future a bit, not the past. The last time I talked with Armstrong he was impossible. I think you know what I mean. All men are that way when they lose their nerve and drown the corpse. What I wish to ask of you is whether the thing was justified. I’m not artistic. I don’t brag of it—I admit it. You’re different; your opinion is of value. Commercially, he’s an impossibility. He couldn’t hold a place if he had it—any place. I don’t need to tell you that either. As a writer—can he write, or can’t he?”
Harry Randall took off his big eyeglasses and polished one lens and then the other.
“In my opinion, yes—and no.” He held the 191 glasses to the light, seemed satisfied, and placed them carefully on his nose. “A great writer—he’ll never be that. It takes nerve and infinite patience to be anything great, and Steve invariably loses his nerve too soon. He lacks just that much of being big. As for ability, the spark—he’s got it, Roberts, as certainly as you and I are sitting here. Elementally, he’s a child and will always remain a child. I think most artists are more or less so. Children can’t bear criticism or delay—uncertain delay—that’s Steve. On the other hand, if he were encouraged, kept free on the financial side, left at liberty to work when he felt the mood, and then only, then—I realize it’s a big ‘if’ and a big contract for some one—he’d make good. Have I answered your question?”