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Chapter 7

           "Wrong?Ohno,surelynot!Whatcantherebewrongaboutyou,Tempest?Areyounotoneoftherichestmenliving?"

           Iletthesatirepass.

           "Listen,myfriend,"Isaidearnestly—"YouknowIhavebeenbusyforthelastfortnightcorrectingtheproofsofmybookforthepress—doyounot?"

           Henoddedwithasmilingair.

           "WellIhavearrivedalmostattheendofmyworkandIhavecometotheconclusionthatthebookisnotMe—itisnotareflexofmyfeelingsatall—andIcannotunderstandhowIcametowriteit."

           "Youfinditstupidperhaps?"saidLuciosympathetically.

           "No,"Iansweredwithatouchofindignation—"Idonotfinditstupid."

           "Dullthen?"

           "No—itisnotdull."

           "Melodramatic?"

           "No—notmelodramatic."

           "Well,mygoodfellow,ifitisnotdullorstupidormelodramatic,whatisit!"heexclaimedmerrily—"Itmustbesomething!"

           "Yes—itisthis—itisbeyondmealtogether."AndIspokewithsomebitterness."Quitebeyondme.Icouldnotwriteitnow—IwonderIcouldwriteitthen.Lucio,IdaresayIamtalkingfoolishly—butitseemstomeImusthavebeenonsomehigheraltitudeofthoughtwhenIwrotethebook—aheightfromwhichIhavesincefallen."

           "I’msorrytohearthis,"heanswered,withtwinklingeyes—"Fromwhatyousayitappearstomeyouhavebeenguiltyofliterarysublimity.Ohbad,verybad!Nothingcanbeworse.Towritesublimelyisagrievoussin,andonewhichcriticsneverforgive.

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