"Yes."

"My poor Denis!" exclaimed Mr. Scogan. "What about?"

Denis felt rather uncomfortable. "Oh, about the usual things,
you know."

"Of course," Mr. Scogan groaned. "I'll describe the plot for
you. Little Percy, the hero, was never good at games, but he was
always clever. He passes through the usual public school and the
usual university and comes to London, where he lives among the
artists. He is bowed down with melancholy thought; he carries
the whole weight of the universe upon his shoulders. He writes a
novel of dazzling brilliance; he dabbles delicately in Amour and
disappears, at the end of the book, into the luminous Future."

Denis blushed scarlet. Mr. Scogan had described the plan of his
novel with an accuracy that was appalling. He made an effort to
laugh. "You're entirely wrong," he said. "My novel is not in
the least like that." It was a heroic lie. Luckily, he
reflected, only two chapters were written. He would tear them up
that very evening when he unpacked.

Mr. Scogan paid no attention to his denial, but went on: "Why
will you young men continue to write about things that are so
entirely uninteresting as the mentality of adolescents and
artists? Professional anthropologists might find it interesting
to turn sometimes from the beliefs of the Blackfellow to the
philosophical preoccupations of the undergraduate. But you can't