Chapter 6 - Page 2

had to do some writing before dinner. Priscilla quite
understood. The prophet retired to his chamber.

Mr. Barbecue-Smith came down to the drawing-room at ten to eight.
He was in a good humour, and, as he descended the stairs, he
smiled to himself and rubbed his large white hands together. In
the drawing-room someone was playing softly and ramblingly on the
piano. He wondered who it could be. One of the young ladies,
perhaps. But no, it was only Denis, who got up hurriedly and
with some embarrassment as he came into the room.

"Do go on, do go on," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "I am very fond
of music."

"Then I couldn't possibly go on," Denis replied. "I only make
noises."

There was a silence. Mr. Barbecue-Smith stood with his back to
the hearth, warming himself at the memory of last winter's fires.
He could not control his interior satisfaction, but still went on
smiling to himself. At last he turned to Denis.

"You write," he asked, "don't you?"

"Well, yes--a little, you know."

"How many words do you find you can write in an hour?"

"I don't think I've ever counted."

"Oh, you ought to, you ought to. It's most important."

Denis exercised his memory. "When I'm in good form," he said, "I
fancy I do a twelve-hundred-word review in about four hours. But
sometimes it takes me much longer."

Mr. Barbecue-Smith nodded. "Yes, three hundred words an hour at
your best." He walked out into the middle of the room, turned
round on his heels, and confronted Denis again. "Guess how many
words I wrote this evening between five and half-past seven."

"I can't imagine."

"No, but you must guess. Between five and half-past seven--
that's two and a half hours."

"Twelve hundred words," Denis hazarded.

"No, no, no." Mr. Barbecue-Smith's expanded face shone with
gaiety. "Try again."

"Fifteen hundred."

"No."

"I give it up," said Denis. He found he couldn't summon up much
interest in Mr. Barbecue-Smith's writing.

"Well, I'll tell you. Three thousand eight hundred."

Denis opened his eyes. "You must get a lot done in a day," he
said.

Mr. Barbecue-Smith suddenly became extremely confidential. He
pulled up a stool to the side of Denis's arm-chair, sat down in
it, and began to talk softly and rapidly.

"Listen to me," he said, laying his hand on Denis's sleeve. "You
want to make your living by writing; you're young, you're
inexperienced. Let me give you a little sound advice."

What was the fellow going to do? Denis wondered: give him an
introduction to the editor of "John o' London's Weekly", or tell
him where he could sell a light middle for seven guineas? Mr.