I thanked my mother effusively. I think I cried a little.

She said affectionately that the hour had been one of great interest to
her, and she added that she would be glad to be consulted with regard
to the steps I contemplated taking in my literary future.

She then resumed her book.

I went to my room and re-read the last letter I had had from James.

_The Barrel Club,
Covent Garden,
London._

MY DARLING MARGIE,--I am writing this line simply and solely for
the selfish pleasure I gain from the act of writing to you. I know
everything will come right some time or other, but at present I am
suffering from a bad attack of the blues. I am like a general who
has planned out a brilliant attack, and realises that he must fail
for want of sufficient troops to carry a position, on the taking of
which the whole success of the assault depends. Briefly, my position
is like this. My name is pretty well known in a small sort of way
among editors and the like as that of a man who can turn out fairly
good stuff. Besides this, I have many influential friends. You see
where this brings me? I am in the middle of my attacking movement,
and I have not been beaten back; but the key to the enemy's position
is still uncaptured. You know what this key is from my other letters.
It's the stage. Ah, Margie, one acting play! Only one! It would mean
everything. Apart from the actual triumph and the direct profits, it
would bring so much with it. The enemy's flank would be turned, and