In this moment of extreme dejection it seemed to Hubert that the writer of the article had told him the exact truth.  He refused to admit the plea of poverty.  It was of course hard to write when one is being harassed by creditors.  But if he had had it in him, it would have come out.  The critic had very probably told him the truth.  He could not hope to make a living out of literature.  He had not the strength to write the masterpiece which the perverse cruelty of nature had permitted him only to see, and he was hopelessly unfit for journalism.  But in his simple, wholesome mind there was no bent towards suicide; and he scanned every horizon.  Once again he thought of his uncle.  Five years ago he had written, asking him for the loan of a hundred pounds.  He had received ten.  And how vain it would be to write a second time!  A few pounds would only serve to prolong his misery.  No; he would not drift from degradation to degradation.

He only glanced at the letter which Annie had brought up with the copy of The Modern Review.  It was clearly a lawyer’s letter.  Should he open it?  Why not spare himself the pain?  He could alter nothing; and in these last days——­ Leaving the thought unfinished, he sought for his keys; he went to his box, unlocked it, and took out a small paper package.  Of the fifty pounds he had received from Ford about twenty remained:  he had been poorer before, but hardly quite so hopeless.  He scanned every horizon—­all were barred.  The thought of suicide, and with it the instinctive shrinking from it, came into his mind again.  Suppose he took, that very night, an overdose of chloral?  He tried to put the thought from him, and returned, a little dazed and helpless, to his chair.  Had the critic in The Modern Review told him the truth?  Was he incapable of earning a living?  It seemed so.  Above all, was he incapable of finishing The Gipsy as he intended?  No; that he felt was a lie.  Give him six months’ quiet, free from worry and all anxiety, and he would do it.  Many a year had passed since he had enjoyed a month of quiet; and glancing again at the letter on the table, he thought that perhaps at that very moment a score of gallery boys were hissing his play.  Perhaps at that very moment Ford was making up his mind to announce the last six nights of Divorce.  At a quarter to twelve he heard Rose’s foot on the stairs.  He opened the door.

‘How did the piece go to-night?’

‘Pretty well.’

’Only pretty well?  Won’t you come in for a few minutes?...  So the piece didn’t go very well to-night?’

‘Oh yes, it did.  I’ve seen it go better; but——­’

‘Did you get a call?’

‘Yes, after the second act.’

‘Not after the third?’

’No.  That act never goes well.  Harding came behind; I was speaking to him, and he said something which struck me as being very true.  Ford, he said, plays the part a great deal too seriously.  When the piece was first produced, it was played more good-humouredly by indifferent actors, who let the thing run without trying to bring out every point.  Ford makes it as hard as nails.  I think those were his exact words.’