Ronald came back to his chair; sat down, his elbows on his knees, his
chin in his hands, and looked earnestly into the troubled eyes of his
wife.

"But, Helen," he said, "that really is not the point. Can't you see that
I am completely possessed by this new plot? Also, that Central Africa is
its only possible setting? It is merely a satisfactory side-issue, that
it varies my _mise-en-scène_."

"Must you go off there, Ronnie, in order to write it? Why not get all
the newest and best books on African travel, and read up facts----"

"Never!" cried Ronald, on his feet again, and walking up and down the
room. "I must be steeped in the wonderful African atmosphere, before I
can sub-consciously work it into my book. No account of other men's
travels could do this for me. Besides, one might get all the main things
correct, yet make a slip in some little unimportant detail. Then,
by-and-by, some Johnny would come along, who could no more have written
a page of your book than he could fly, but who happens to be intimately
acquainted with the locality. He ignores the plot, the character-study,
all the careful work on the essentials; but he spots your trivial error
concerning some completely unimportant detail. So off he writes to the
papers, triumphantly airing his little tit-bit of superior information;
other mediocre people take it up--and you never hear the end of it."

Helen laughed, tender amusement in her eyes.

"Ronnie dear, I admit that not many Johnnies could write your books.
But most Johnnies can fly, now-a-days! You must be more up-to-date in
your similes, old boy; or you will have your wife writing to the papers,