I woke in a shivering frame of mind, ashamed to meet Callan’s eye.  It was as if he must be aware of my over-night thoughts, as if he must think me a fool who quarrelled with my victuals.  He gave no signs of any such knowledge—­was dignified, cordial; discussed his breakfast with gusto, opened his letters, and so on.  An anaemic amanuensis was taking notes for appropriate replies.  How could I tell him that I would not do the work, that I was too proud and all the rest of it?  He would have thought me a fool, would have stiffened into hostility, I should have lost my last chance.  And, in the broad light of day, I was loath to do that.

He began to talk about indifferent things; we glided out on to a current of mediocre conversation.  The psychical moment, if there were any such, disappeared.

Someone bearing my name had written to express an intention of offering personal worship that afternoon.  The prospect seemed to please the great Cal.  He was used to such things; he found them pay, I suppose.  We began desultorily to discuss the possibility of the writer’s being a relation of mine; I doubted.  I had no relations that I knew of; there was a phenomenal old aunt who had inherited the acres and respectability of the Etchingham Grangers, but she was not the kind of person to worship a novelist.  I, the poor last of the family, was without the pale, simply because I, too, was a novelist.  I explained these things to Callan and he commented on them, found it strange how small or how large, I forget which, the world was.  Since his own apotheosis shoals of Callans had claimed relationship.

I ate my breakfast.  Afterward, we set about the hatching of that article—­the thought of it sickens me even now.  You will find it in the volume along with the others; you may see how I lugged in Callan’s surroundings, his writing-room, his dining-room, the romantic arbour in which he found it easy to write love-scenes, the clipped trees like peacocks and the trees clipped like bears, and all the rest of the background for appropriate attitudes.  He was satisfied with any arrangements of words that suggested a gentle awe on the part of the writer.

“Yes, yes,” he said once or twice, “that’s just the touch, just the touch—­very nice.  But don’t you think....”  We lunched after some time.

I was so happy.  Quite pathetically happy.  It had come so easy to me.  I had doubted my ability to do the sort of thing; but it had written itself, as money spends itself, and I was going to earn money like that.  The whole of my past seemed a mistake—­a childishness.  I had kept out of this sort of thing because I had thought it below me; I had kept out of it and had starved my body and warped my mind.  Perhaps I had even damaged my work by this isolation.  To understand life one must live—­and I had only brooded.  But, by Jove, I would try to live now.

Callan had retired for his accustomed siesta and I was smoking pipe after pipe over a confoundedly bad French novel that I had found in the book-shelves.  I must have been dozing.  A voice from behind my back announced: