novel.

5

He wished now that he had asked John Marsh and Patrick Galway to read
the story and tell him what they thought of it. They were honest men,
and would criticise his work frankly. At that moment, he had an
insatiable longing to know the truth, mingled with a strange fear of
knowing it. What he wished to know was whether or not he had the
potentialities of a great author in him. He knew that his story was not
commonplace stuff, but he was afraid that it might only be middling
writing, and he did not wish to be a middling writer. If he could not be
a great writer, he did not wish to be a writer at all. There were
thousands and thousands of novels in the world which did no more for men
than enable them to put their minds to sleep. Henry did not wish to add
a book to their number. There were other books, fewer in number than
those, which showed that their authors had some feeling for life, but
not enough, and these authors went on, year after year, producing one or
more novels, each of which "showed promise," but never showed
achievement. The life these men pursued always eluded them. It was
impossible for Henry to join the crowd of people who produced books
which perished with the generation that they pleased. That much he knew.
But he was eager that he should not fall into the ranks of the
semi-great, the half-clever; and his fear was that his place was in
their midst.

While he was ruminating in this manner, he remembered that Gilbert
Farlow had written to him a few days before he left Dublin, and he
ceased to think of his career as a writer and began to search his
pockets for Gilbert's letter.

"I'll show the manuscript to Gilbert," he said to himself. "Old Gilbert
loves telling people the truth!"

He found the letter and began to read it. "_Quinny_," it began, for
Gilbert had abandoned "dears" because, he said, he sometimes had to
write to people who were detestable:

_"Quinny: How soon can you get quit of that barrack in Dublin where your
misguided father thinks you are being taught to be Irish? Cast your eyes
on the address at the head of this notepaper. It is a noble house that
Roger and I have discovered. Ninian has seen it and he approves of it. I
said I'd break his blighted neck for him if he disapproved of it, which
may have had something to do with his decision, though not much, for
Ninian has become a very muscular young fellow and I shouldn't have
liked the job of breaking his neck very muc