"Thank you," said the American, meekly.

Every one who came to the first floor front talked about a play.
It seemed to be something of great moment to the American. It
was only a bundle of leaves printed in red and black inks and
bound in brown paper covers. There were two of them, and the
American called them by different names: one was his comedy and
one was his tragedy.

"They are both likely to be tragedies," the Lion heard one of the
visitors say to another, as they drove away together. "Our young
friend takes it too seriously."

The American spent most of his time by his desk at the window
writing on little blue pads and tearing up what he wrote, or in
reading over one of the plays to himself in a loud voice. In
time the number of his visitors increased, and to some of these
he would read his play; and after they had left him he was
either depressed and silent or excited and jubilant. The Lion
could always tell when he was happy because then he would go to
the side table and pour himself out a drink and say, "Here's to
me," but when he was depressed he would stand holding the glass
in his hand, and finally pour the liquor back into the bottle
again and say, "What's the use of that?"

After he had been in London a month he wrote less and was more
frequently abroad, sallying forth in beautiful raiment, and
coming home by daylight.

And he gave suppers too, but they were less noisy than the