“In this chapter, the Sixth,” Desire was saying, “you seem to lose some of the serious purpose which is a prominent note in the opening chapters.  You begin to treat things casually.  You almost allow yourself to be humorous.  Now is this supposed to be a humorous book, or is it not?”

“Oh—­not.  Distinctly not.”

“Well then, don’t you see?  If you had treated the thing in that semi-humorous manner all through and continued in that vein you would produce a certain definite type of book.  The critics would probably say—­”

“I know, spare me!” “They would say,” sternly, “that ’Professor Spence has a light touch.’  That ’he has treated his subject in a popular manner.’” (The professor groaned.) “But that isn’t a patch upon what they will say if you mix up your styles as you are doing at present.”

“But—­well, what do you advise?”

Desire sucked her pencil. (He had given up trying to cure her of this poisonous habit.)

“I’ve thought about that.  If you were not so—­so temperamental, I would say go back and begin again.  But that is risky.  It will be better to go on, I think, trying to recapture the more serious style, until the whole book it at least in some form.  Then you will know exactly where you are and what is necessary to harmonize the whole.  You can then rewrite the ‘off’ chapters, bringing them into line.  This is a recognized literary method, I believe.”

“Is it?  Good heavens!”

“I read it in a book.”

“Then it must be literary.  All right.  I’m agreeable.  But at present--”

“At present,” firmly, “the main thing is to go on.”

“This morning?”

“Certainly.”

“But I don’t want to go on this morning.  That is the flaw in your literary method.  It makes me go on whether I want to or not.  Now the really top-notchers never do that.  They are as full of stoppages as a freight train.  Fact.  They only create when the spirit moves them.”

“Aren’t you thinking of Quakers?” suggested Desire sweetly.  “Besides you are not creating.  You are compiling—­a very different thing.”

“But what is the use of compiling an off chapter when I know it is going to be an off one?”

Desire threw down her pencil.

“Oh, Benis,” she said.  “I don’t like this.  Don’t let us play with words.  Surely you are not getting tired—­you can’t be.”

Her eyes, urgent and truth-compelling, forced an answer.

“I don’t quite know,” he said.  “But I am certainly off work at present.  There may be all kinds of reasons.  You will have to be patient, Desire.”

“Then,” in a low voice, “it isn’t only indolence?”

He was moved to candor.  “It isn’t indolence at all.  I have always been a fairly good worker, and will be again.  But the driving force has shifted.  I have not been doing good work and I know it.  The more I know it the worse the work will become. . . .  It doesn’t matter, really, child,” he added gently, seeing that she had turned away.  “The world can wait for the bit of knowledge I can give it.”