the rest of the battle would become a mere rout. I should have an
accepted position in the literary world which would convert all the
other avenues to wealth on which I have my eye instantly into royal
roads. Obstacles would vanish. The fact that I was a successful
playwright would make the acceptance of the sort of work I am doing
now inevitable, and I should get paid ten times as well for it. And
it would mean--well, you know what it would mean, don't you? Darling
Margie, tell me again that I have your love, that the waiting is not
too hard, that you believe in me. Dearest, it will come right in the
end. Nothing can prevent that. Love and the will of a man have always
beaten Time and Fate. Write to me, dear.

_Ever your devoted
James._

How utterly free from thought of self! His magnificent loyalty forgot
the dreadful tension of his own great battle, and pictured only the
tedium of waiting which it was my part to endure.

I finished my letter to James very late that night. It was a very long
and explanatory letter, and it enclosed my play.

The main point I aimed at was not to damp his spirits. He would, I knew
well, see that the play was suitable for staging. He would, in short,
see that I, an inexperienced girl, had done what he, a trained
professional writer, had failed to do. Lest, therefore, his pique
should kill admiration and pleasure when he received my work, I wrote
as one begging a favour. "Here," I said, "we have the means to achieve
all we want. Do not--oh, do not--criticise. I have written down the
words. But the conception is yours. The play was inspired by you. But