fingers. "When I came to, I found that it was past midnight, and
I had written four thousand words. Four thousand," he repeated,
opening his mouth very wide on the "ou" of thousand.
"Inspiration had come to me."

"What a very extraordinary thing," said Denis.

"I was afraid of it at first. It didn't seem to me natural. I
didn't feel, somehow, that it was quite right, quite fair, I
might almost say, to produce a literary composition
unconsciously. Besides, I was afraid I might have written
nonsense."

"And had you written nonsense?" Denis asked.

"Certainly not," Mr. Barbecue-Smith replied, with a trace of
annoyance. "Certainly not. It was admirable. Just a few
spelling mistakes and slips, such as there generally are in
automatic writing. But the style, the thought--all the
essentials were admirable. After that, Inspiration came to me
regularly. I wrote the whole of 'Humble Heroisms' like that. It
was a great success, and so has everything been that I have
written since." He leaned forward and jabbed at Denis with his
finger. "That's my secret," he said, "and that's how you could
write too, if you tried--without effort, fluently, well."

"But how?" asked Denis, trying not to show how deeply he had been
insulted by that final "well."

"By cultivating your Inspiration, by getting into touch with your