hink there's no life to be seen
anywhere but in London. As if people hadn't got bowels here as well as
in town!"

"I don't think that, father!..."

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter whether you think it or not, you'll not be
happy 'til you get to London, I suppose. You'll stay here a wee while
anyway, won't you? You've only just come home, an' it's a long time
since I saw you last!"

"I'll stay as long as you like, father."

"Very well, then. I'll tell you when I've had enough of your company an'
then you can go off to your friends. How much money do you think you'll
need in London? Don't ask for too much. I need every ha'penny I have for
the work. You've no notion what a lot it costs to experiment wi' land,
an' I'm not as rich as you might imagine!"

Henry hesitated. He had never talked about money with his father, and he
had a curious shyness about doing so now. "I don't know," he replied.
"Would two hundred a year be too much?..."

"I'll spare you two hundred an' fifty!"

"Thank you, father. It's awfully good of you!"

"Ah, wheesht with you! Sure, why wouldn't a man be good to his own son.
I suppose now you want to hear what I think of your book?"

Henry smiled self-consciously. "Yes, I should like to know your opinion
of it. I thought at first you didn't think much of it. You didn't say
anything!..."

"I'll give you a couple of years to improve it," Mr. Quinn answered.
"If you can't make it better in that time, you're no good!"

"I suppose not."

"An' don't hurry over it. Go out an' look about you a bit. There's a lot
of stuff in your story that wouldn't be there if you had any gumption.
Get gumption, Henry!"

"I'll try, father. Of course, I know I'm very inexperienced...."

"You are, my son, an' what's more you're tellin' everybody how little
you know in that book of yours. Man, dear, women aren't like that!...
Well, never mind! You'll find out for yourself soon enough. Mind, I
don't mean to say that there aren't some good things in the book. There
are ... plenty! If there weren't, I wouldn't waste my breath talkin' to
you about it. But there are things in it that are just guff, Henry, just
guff. The kind of romantic slush that a young fellow throws off when he
first realises that women are ... well, women, damn it! ... I wish to
God, you would write a book about continuous croppin'! Now, there's a
subject for a good book! There's none of your damned love about
that!..."

3

He had not seen Sheil