'I think I'd rather not. I shall be all right--that is to say, if Ford
engages me for Brown's new piece; and I think he will.'

'But if he doesn't?'

'Then,' she said, with a sweet and natural smile, 'I'll write to you.... We
have been excellent friends--comrades--have we not?'

'Yes, we have indeed, and I shall never forget. There is my address; that
will always find me.'

He had written a play--a play that the most competent critics had
considered a work of genius; in any case, a play that had interested his
generation more than any other. It had failed, and failed twice; but did
that prove anything? Fortune had deserted him, and he had been unable to
finish _The Gipsy_. Was it the fault of circumstances that he had not been
able to finish that play? or was it that the slight vein of genius that had
been in him once had been exhausted? He remembered the article in _The
Modern Review_, and was frightened to think that the critic might have
divined the truth. Once it had seemed impossible to finish that play; but
fortune had come to his aid, accident had made him master of his destiny;
he could spend three years, five years if he liked, on _The Gipsy_. But why
think of the play at all? What did it matter even if he never wrote it?
There were many things to do in life besides writing plays. There was life!
His life was henceforth his own, and he could live it as he pleased. What
should he do with it? To whom should he give it? Should he keep it all for
himself and his art? It were useless to make plans. All he knew for certain
was that henceforth he was master of his own life, and could dispense it as
he pleased.