By God you’re the queer bloody man, he said.

  He then brought from his pocket a box of the twenty denomination, lighting one for each of us.  

 There are two ways to make big money, he said, to write a book or to make a book.

  It happened that this remark provoked between us a discussion on the subject of literature –great authors living and dead, the character of modern poetry, the predilections of publishers and the importance of being at all times occupied with literary activities of a spare-time or recreative character. My dim room rang with the irons of fine words and the names of great Russian masters were articulated with fastidious intonation.

Witticisms were canvassed, depending for their utility on a knowledge of the French language as spoken in the medieval times. Psycho-analysis was mentioned –with however, a somewhat light touch. I then tendered an explanation spontaneous and unsolicited concerning my own work, affording an insight as to its aesthetic, its daemon, its argument, its sorrow and its joy, its darkness, its sun-twinkle clearness.

  That is all my bum, said Brinsley.

  But taking precise typescript from beneath the book that was at my side, I explained to him my literary intentions in considerable detail -now reading, now discoursing, oratio recta and oratio obliqua.  

  There was an interruption, I recall, at this stage. My uncle put his head through the door and looked at me in a severe manner, his face flushed from walking and an evening paper in his hand. He was about to address me when he perceived the shadow of Brinsley by the window.

  Well, well, he said. He came in in a genial noisy manner, closed the door with vigour and peered at the form of Brinsley. Brinsley took his hands from his pockets and smiled without reason in the twilight.

  Good evening to you, gentlemen, said my uncle.

  Good evening, said Brinsley.

  This is Mr Brinsley, a friend of mine, I said, raising my shoulders feebly from the bed. I gave a low moan of exhaustion.

  My uncle extended an honest hand in the grip of friendship.

  Ah, Mr Brinsley, how do you do? he said. How do you do, Sir? you are a University man, Mr 

Brinsley?

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