ss steadily than Henry, finished a new comedy and sent it to Sir
Goeffrey Mundane, the manager of the Pall Mall Theatre, who utterly
astounded Gilbert by accepting it.

"Quinny!" he shouted, running up to Henry's room with the letter which
had been delivered by the mid-day post, "Mundane's accepted 'The Magic
Casement'!"

"What's that?" said Henry, turning round from his desk.

"He's accepted it, Quinny! I always said he was a damned good actor, and
so he is. My Lord, this is ripping! He says _it's a splendid comedy_ ...
so it is ... _as good as Oscar Wilde at his best_ ... oh, better, damn
it, better ... and will I _please come and see him on Friday morning at
eleven o'clock_ ... I'll be there before he's out of bed!... I say,
Quinny, we ought to do something, ought'nt we? Is it the correct thing
to get drunk on these occasions?"

His joy was so extravagant that Henry felt many years older than
Gilbert, and he patted him paternally on the shoulder and told him to
develop the stoic virtues.

"I'm most frightfully pleased, Gilbert!" he said, when he had done with
the paternal manner. "When's he going to put the play on?"

"He doesn't say. The thing he's doing now is no damn good, and he'll
probably take it off soon. Perhaps he'll produce 'The Magic Casement'
after that. Quinny, it is a good play, isn't it? Sometimes I get a most
shocking hump about things, and I think I'm no good at all...."

"Of course, it's a good play, Gilbert!..."

"Yes, but is it good enough?"

"I don't know. I don't suppose anything ever is. I thought 'Drusilla'
was a great book until my father read it, and then I thought it was
rubbish...."

"It wasn't rubbish, Quinny, and the revised version is really good."

"I think that, too, but sometimes I'm not sure!"

"Isn't it damnable, Quinny, this job of writing? You never get any
satisfaction out of it. I'd like to make cheeses ... I'm sure people who
make cheeses feel that they've just made the very best cheese that can
be made ... but I'm always seeing something in my work that might have
been done better."

Henry nodded his head. "I suppose," he said, "it'll always be like that
I think," he went on, "Maiden is going to take my novel. I saw Redder
yesterday!..." Redder was his agent ... "and he says Maiden's the
likeliest person. I shan't get much. Forty or fifty pounds on account of
royalties, but it's a start!"

"The great thing," said Gilbert, "is to get into print. I wonder how