“Nevertheless,” said Mr. Lasher, very bitterly (for he had always said, “If one does not bring one’s imagination into one’s work one’s work is of no value"), “writers of idle tales are not the only people who use their imaginations.  And, if you will allow me, without offence, to say so, Pidgen, your books, even amongst other things of the same sort, have not been the most successful.”

This remark seemed to pour water upon all the anger in Mr. Pidgen’s heart.  His eyes expressed scorn, but not now for Mr. Lasher—­for himself.  His whole figure drooped and was bowed like a robin in a thunderstorm.

“That’s true enough.  Bless my soul, Lasher, that’s true enough.  They hardly sell at all.  I’ve written a dozen of them now, ’The Blue Pouncet Box,’ ‘The Three-tailed Griffin,’ ‘The Tree without any Branches,’ but you won’t want to be bothered with the names of them.  ‘The Griffin’ went into two editions, but it was only because the pictures were rather sentimental.  I’ve often said to myself, ’If a thing doesn’t sell in these days it must be good,’ but I’ve not really convinced myself.  I’d like them to have sold.  Always, until now, I’ve had hopes of the next one, and thought that it would turn out better, like a woman with her babies.  I seem to have given up expecting that now.  It isn’t, you know, being always hard-up that I mind so much, although that, mind you, isn’t pleasant, no, by Jehoshaphat, it isn’t.  But we would like now and again to find that other people have enjoyed what one hoped they would enjoy.  But I don’t know, they always seem too old for children and too young for grown-ups—­my stories, I mean.”

It was one of the hardest traits in Mr. Lasher’s character, as Hugh well realised, “to rub it in” over a fallen foe.  He considered this his duty; it was also, I am afraid, a pleasure.  “It’s a pity,” he said, “that things should not have gone better; but there are so many writers to-day that I wonder any one writes at all.  We live in a practical, realistic age.  The leaders amongst us have decided that every man must gird his loins and go out to fight his battles with real weapons in a real cause, not sit dreaming at his windows looking down upon the busy market-place.” (Mr. Lasher loved what he called “images.”  There were many in his sermons.) “But, my dear Pidgen, it is in no way too late.  Give up your fairy stories now that they have been proved a failure.”

Here Mr. Pidgen, in the most astonishing way, was suddenly in a terrible temper.  “They’re not!” he almost screamed.  “Not at all.  Failures, from the worldly point of view, yes; but there are some who understand.  I would not have done anything else if I could.  You, Lasher, with your soup-tickets and your choir-treats, think there’s no room for me and my fairy stories.  I tell you, you may find yourself jolly well mistaken one of these days.  Yes, by Cæsar, you may.  How do you know what’s best worth doing?  If you’d listened a little more to the things you were told when you were a baby, you’d be a more intelligent man now.”