London, a vibrating pulse, a muffled thunder." I began to be afraid that
Delancey's book would be very bad indeed. It was, it appeared, to be a
novel. "Not exactly a novel," he explained, "a large canvas with figures
moving on a back-ground of world conditions." I thought of "War and
Peace" and was silent. It doesn't matter being silent with Delancey
because he doesn't notice it.

"I want," he said, "to picture the very earth in the agonies of labour
giving birth to a new world." Later, the theme was (to my secret relief)
narrowed down to England.

"I have changed my motif a little," he said. "I simply want to portray
the quicksilver of after-war conditions--England in transition." At this
time Delancey seemed to me the least little tiny bit depressed. The
income he was sacrificing rose (in his conversation) from 5,000 to 7,000
pounds. He dined out less, avoided his club and Christie's. Also, he
kept out of love. For ten years, Delancey had always been in love.
Managed by him, it was a delightful state, ably presided over by head
waiters and florists. It made, he once explained to me, all the
difference to walking into a room.

But everything was changed now. The masterpiece was a jealous god.
Jealous and, I sometimes thought, apt to be a little tiresome. It had to
be referred to so very deferentially, with such carefully serious
respect. Also, it cast a shadow of gravity over Delancey--Delancey who
was never meant to be a high priest, but rather a young man in white
flannels, with a cigarette in his mouth, punting a young girl with a red
sunshade--like an illustration to one of his own stories.

Friendship is a difficult, dangerous job. It is also (though we rarely