Mr. Barbecue-Smith suddenly became extremely confidential. He pulled up a stool to the side of Denis's arm-chair, sat down in it, and began to talk softly and rapidly.
"Listen to me," he said, laying his hand on Denis's sleeve. "You want to make your living by writing; you're young, you're inexperienced. Let me give you a little sound advice."
What was the fellow going to do? Denis wondered: give him an introduction to the editor of John o' London's Weekly, or tell him where he could sell a light middle for seven guineas? Mr. Barbecue-Smith patted his arm several times and went on.
"The secret of writing," he said, breathing it into the young man's ear—"the secret of writing is Inspiration."
Denis looked at him in astonishment.
"Inspiration . . ." Mr. Barbecue-Smith repeated.
"You mean the native wood-note business?"
Mr. Barbecue-Smith nodded.
"Oh, then I entirely agree with you," said Denis. "But what if one hasn't got Inspiration?"
