one must admit that he's failed--he would never stick to anything.'"

Now this was so exactly what Mr. Lasher had, on several occasions, said
about his friend that he was really for the moment at a loss. He pulled
at his pipe, looked very grave, and then said:

"My dear Pidgen, you must remember our lives have followed such
different courses. I can only give you my point of view. I don't myself
care greatly for romances--fairy tales and so on. It seems to me that
for a grown-up man.... However, I don't pretend to be a literary fellow;
I have other work, other duties, picturesque, but nevertheless
necessary."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Pidgen, who, considering that he had invited his
host's honest opinion, should not have become irritated because he had
obtained it; "that's just it. You people all think only _you_ know what
is necessary. Why shouldn't a fairy story be as necessary as a sermon? A
lot more necessary, I dare say. You think you're the only people who can
know anything about it. You people never use your imaginations."

"Nevertheless," said Mr. Lasher, very bitterly (for he had always said,
"If one does not bring one's imagination into one's work one's work is
of no value"), "writers of idle tales are not the only people who use
their imaginations. And, if you will allow me, without offence, to say
so, Pidgen, your books, even amongst other things of the same sort, have
not been the most successful."

This remark seemed to pour water upon all the anger in Mr. Pidgen's
heart. His eyes expressed scorn, but not now for Mr. Lasher--for
himself. His whole figure drooped and was bowed like a robin in a