poor old Derrick was very human, and when wounded too intolerably
could on occasion retaliate.

The Major uttered an oath and looked in astonishment at the
retreating figure. Derrick was such an extraordinarily quiet,
respectful, long-suffering son as a rule, that this outburst was
startling in the extreme. Moreover, it spoilt the game, and the old
man, chafed by the result of his own ill-nature, and helpless to
bring back his partner, was forced to betake himself to chess. I
left him grumbling away to Lawrence about the vanity of authors, and
went out in the hope of finding Derrick. As I left the house I saw
someone turn the corner into the Circus, and starting in pursuit,
overtook the tall, dark figure where Bennett Street opens on to the
Lansdowne Hill.

"I'm glad you spoke up, old fellow," I said, taking his arm.

He modified his pace a little. "Why is it," he exclaimed, "that
every other profession can be taken seriously, but that a novelist's
work is supposed to be mere play? Good God! don't we suffer enough?
Have we not hard brain work and drudgery of desk work and tedious
gathering of statistics and troublesome search into details? Have
we not an appalling weight of responsibility on us?--and are we not
at the mercy of a thousand capricious chances?"

"Come now," I exclaimed, "you know that you are never so happy as
when you are writing."

"Of course," he replied; "but that doesn't make me resent such an
attack the less. Besides, you don't know what it is to have to