"Then look at my heroes. I have mastered the second lieutenant. My
typewriter almost automatically writes 'old top,' 'old soul,' 'old
bean,' 'old egg.' All my study of this type is thrown away. And
heroines--why, I shall have to study dress again. The hospital nurse is
done for; the buxom proportions of the land-girl avail me no more.
My dear fellow, it will be six months before I can deal with women's
costume competently.

"And plots. How the War simplified everything. The Zep, a failure in
fact, was a splendid success in fiction. The awkward people could be
wiped out so simply. Then one's villains could die gallantly--a bit of
good in the worst of men, you know--whispering a hurried confession in
the ears of the Company Sergeant-Major in the front trenches.

"Then, again, all misunderstandings were explained when the V.C. looked
up from his hospital bed. 'Eric,' she gushed, 'you here!' And from that
moment he needed no more medicine. My dear fellow, we shall want new
plots now; real plots and new characters. It will be a long time before
I can return to my pre-war standard of strong, silent, masterful
millionaires from the backwoods. Haven't I a right to seek compensation
from the Government for checking my intellectual output?"

"I think the Government ought to pay you ten pounds for every week in
which you don't write," I said.

Simmons shook me warmly by the hand.

The next day he cut me dead. I believe that Simmons, though an author of
popular fiction, must have been thinking.