"You finished the bottle yourself just this minute!" returned my
father, in surprise.

"Did I? Oh, very likely! Absence of mind!"

"It seems to me if you had a little less of this talent you boast of
you would be considerably the gainer."

"Possibly," I rejoined. "But a gift is a gift. You can't say to
nature, take this back and let me have something more paying!
Besides, I can't admit that for any earthly reason I would change. I
have no desire to be a second-rate writer when I know I am a first!"

"By Jove! if conceit could carry the day!"

"No, there is no conceit," I persisted. "Is it conceit to say my
hair is black? It is black, and everybody can see it is. I have
nothing to do with it. Nature made it black, and black it is, and I
know it. Should I gain anything by contending that it was red? I
don't see that I should. However," I added, laughing, "The point is
of no consequence. Put me down as a fifth-rate writer, if you like,
until I become the fashion!"

"It does not seem you ever will, at this pace," he said quietly.

"Very good," I answered, equally quietly.

"Then you will not have the trouble of changing your opinion."

There was a long silence then. We each smoked without a word. At