to wonder what to write.



II


It was near the Albert Memorial that the great inspiration came to him
some weeks later. Those had been weeks of mingled hope and despair; of
hope as he had fondled again his treasured books and read their titles,
or gazed at the photograph of Mary; of despair as he had taken off his
belt and counted out his rapidly-decreasing stock of money, or reflected
that he was as far from completing his novel as ever. Sometimes in the
search for an idea he had frequented the restaurants where the great
Samuel Johnson himself had eaten, and sometimes he had frequented other
restaurants where even the great Samuel Johnson himself had been unable
to eat. Often he had gone into the British Museum and leant against a
mummy-case, or taken a 'bus to Chelsea and pressed his forehead against
the brass-plate which marked Carlyle's house, but no inspiration had
come. And then suddenly, quite close to the Albert Memorial, he knew.

He would write a novel about a boy called William who had lived in
Cornwall, and who came to London and wrote a novel, a novel of which "The
Westminster Gazette" said: "This novel undoubtedly places the author in
the front rank of living novelists." William's novel would be a realistic
account of--yes, that was it--of a boy called Henry, who had lived in
Cornwall, and who came to London and wrote a novel, a novel of which "The
Morning Post" said: "By this novel the author has indubitably established
his claim to be reckoned among the few living novelists who count." But
stay! What should this novel of Henry's be about? It would be necessary