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He re-read the apophthegm with a slower and more solemn utterance. "Straight from the Infinite," he commented reflectively, then addressed himself to the next aphorism. "The flame of a candle gives Light, but it also Burns." Puzzled wrinkles appeared on Mr. Barbecue-Smith's forehead. "I don't exactly know what that means," he said. "It's very gnomic.
Denis wondered if there was any method, consistent, of course, with politeness, by which he could dissociate himself from Mr. Barbecue-Smith's "we." There was none; and besides, it was too late now, for Mr. Barbecue-Smith was once more pursuing the tenor of his discourse. "At thirty-eight I was a poor, struggling, tired, overworked, unknown journalist.
Barbecue-Smith's expanded face shone with gaiety. "Try again." "Fifteen hundred." "No." "I give it up," said Denis. He found he couldn't summon up much interest in Mr. Barbecue-Smith's writing. "Well, I'll tell you. Three thousand eight hundred." Denis opened his eyes. "You must get a lot done in a day," he said. Mr. Barbecue-Smith suddenly became extremely confidential.
"But how?" asked Denis, trying not to show how deeply he had been insulted by that final "well." "By cultivating your Inspiration, by getting into touch with your Subconscious. Have you ever read my little book, 'Pipe-Lines to the Infinite'?" Denis had to confess that that was, precisely, one of the few, perhaps the only one, of Mr. Barbecue-Smith's works he had not read.
Barbecue-Smith replied. "I canalise it. I bring it down through pipes to work the turbines of my conscious mind." "Like Niagara," Denis suggested. Some of Mr. Barbecue-Smith's remarks sounded strangely like quotations quotations from his own works, no doubt. "Precisely. Like Niagara. And this is how I do it."
From the arm-chair by the fireplace he heard Priscilla's deep voice. "Tell me, Mr Barbecue-Smith you know all about science, I know " A deprecating noise came from Mr. Barbecue-Smith's chair. "This Einstein theory. It seems to upset the whole starry universe. It makes me so worried about my horoscopes. You see..." Mary renewed her attack.
Lunch, tea, dinner, theatre, supper every day. It was fun, of course, while it lasted. But there wasn't much left of it afterwards. There's rather a good thing about that in Barbecue-Smith's new book. Where is it?" She sat up and reached for a book that was lying on the little table by the head of the sofa. "Do you know him, by the way?" she asked. "Who?" "Mr. Barbecue-Smith."
She was putting them in the same category Barbecue-Smith and himself. They were both writers, they both used pen and ink. To Mr. Barbecue-Smith's question he answered, "Oh, nothing much, nothing," and looked away. "Mr. Stone is one of our younger poets." It was Anne's voice. He scowled at her, and she smiled back exasperatingly. "Excellent, excellent," said Mr.
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