“I’m not going to do it!”
“You’re not going to do what?”
“Stop writing!”
Johnathan Forge could scarcely believe his ears. For a quarter moment he sat rigid, hardly seeming to breathe.
“What say? What say?” he gasped weakly.
“I’m not going to promise to stop writing poetry—nothing of the sort! I’ve got a hunch for it, if I am blundering around in a fog. But somewhere, sometime, I’ll find my way out. I know I’m not the kind of son you wish you’d had. Edith’s not the kind of daughter or mother isn’t the kind of wife, either. But I’m me and I’m going to keep trying. Nobody’s going to stop me—and——”
“You saucy young pup! You saucy young pup!”
“I’m not saucy! I’m honest. I’m giving you a fair, square answer——”
“I’ll flog you within an inch of your life!”
“Don’t do it, dad! It’ll only make things worse.”