“Hum!” said I.

“And then again—­”

“What more?” I inquired.

“Love!” said the Tinker, wiping his knife-blade on the leg of his breeches.

“Love?” I repeated.

“And plenty of it,” said the Tinker.

“I’m afraid that is impossible,” said I, after a moment’s thought.

“How impossible?”

Because I know nothing about love.”

“That’s a pity,” said the Tinker.

“Under the circumstances, it is,” said I.

“Not a doubt of it,” said the Tinker, beginning to scrub out the frying-pan with a handful of grass, “though to be sure you might learn; you’re young enough.”

“Yes, I might learn,” said I; “who knows?”

“Ah! who knows?” said the Tinker.  And after he had cleansed the pan to his satisfaction, he turned to me with dexter finger upraised and brow of heavy portent.  “Young fellow,” said he, “no man can write a good nov-el without he knows summat about love, it aren’t to be expected—­so the sooner you do learn, the better.”

“Hum!” said I.

“And then, as I said afore and I say it again, they wants love in a book nowadays, and wot’s more they will have it.”

“They?” said I.

“The folk as will read your book—­after it is written.”

“Ah! to be sure,” said I, somewhat taken aback; “I had forgotten them.”

“Forgotten them?” repeated the Tinker, staring.

“Forgotten that people might went to read it—­after it is written.”

“But,” said the Tinker, rubbing his nose hard, “books are written for people to read, aren’t they?”

“Not always,” said I.

Hereupon the Tinker rubbed his nose harder than ever.

“Many of the world’s greatest books, those masterpieces which have lived and shall live on forever, were written (as I believe) for the pure love of writing them.”

“Oh!” said the Tinker.

“Yes,” said I, warming to my theme, “and with little or no idea of the eyes of those unborn generations which were to read and marvel at them; hence it is we get those sublime thoughts untrammelled by passing tastes and fashions, unbounded by narrow creed or popular prejudice.”

“Ah?” said the Tinker.

“Many a great writer has been spoiled by fashion and success, for, so soon as he begins to think upon his public, how best to please and hold their fancy (which is ever the most fickle of mundane things) straightway Genius spreads abroad his pinions and leaves him in the mire.”

“Poor cove!” said the Tinker.  “Young man, you smile, I think?”

“No,” said I.

“Well, supposing a writer never had no gen’us—­how then?”

“Why then,” said I, “he should never dare to write at all.”

“Young fellow,” said the Tinker, glancing at me from the corners of his eyes, “are you sure you are a gen’us then?”

Now when my companion said this I fell silent, for the very sufficient reason that I found nothing to say.