smile, and said nothing. It is so hard to explain to an outsider the
involuntariness of all real talent.

This great leading characteristic is invariably but imperfectly
grasped by others.

They cannot realise it.

I was too flat in spirits and too tired in body to feel inclined to
enter then into an abstruse discussion with him, and I would have
let the matter slide.

His last remark to the ear of anyone who has genuine talent, whether
artist or author or poet, or what you please, sounds like a
sacrilegious blasphemy.

"Make up something!"

Great heavens! What an expression!

Is a writer, then, a cook, preparing a new dish? Is he a nursery
maid soothing a refractory child? Is he a woman's dressmaker taking
her mistress's orders?

Dinner was served just then, and we took our seats at the table in
silence.

I thought I should have no need to answer.

However, when the butler had deposited the soup and shut the door