“I know.” Cavan lit a cigarette, then drank down half his cup of coffee at one gulp. “He sets a high standard. I have nothing against that.” He set his cup down firmly and frowned. “At least you’ve got a passion for what you’re doing, Hastings. The trouble with Ridley is that he’s so dull about it all. I don’t get any sense that he’s gripped by the subject. Oh well”—Cavan shrugged as if to shrug away something unnecessarily disturbing—“he’ll get through next time with a little luck. What have you been doing with all those cards and files lately? Got anywhere?”

George choked on a swallow of coffee. Tears started from his eyes. He felt ludicrous. He had been running toward this moment all through the day. For months he had dreamed of this moment, and now he was coughing and trying to catch his breath and Edward Cavan was giving him a heavy slap on the back and laughing at him. Finally he was able to say in a squeaky voice, “I outlined the book today. I think I’m ready to begin.” He wiped his face with a handkerchief and blew his nose. He felt utterly humiliated. Some of the coffee had spilled on his shirt; he tried to wipe it off with a paper napkin.

“Good, I’m glad to hear it.” Cavan looked at him hard, without smiling. “Better be prepared for a letdown,” he said unexpectedly. “You’ll never see the book as clearly again till it’s finished—and even then all you’ll see is the enormous gap between that flash of real mastery and what finally gets down on paper.” Cavan was leaning forward now, not looking at George, and George watched him, the way his mouth clamped shut tight when he was thinking, the way his eyes seemed to get more intense and smaller. For Cavan the act of thinking was a physical act, a physical conflict, and this was rather disturbing.

“You didn’t feel that about the American giants book surely, did you?” George said, trying to fit together what looked like anguish and the classic masterpiece.

“Of course,” Cavan said impatiently. “I rewrote some chapters five times. When I finished it, I was in despair.” He laughed a short laugh with no humor in it. Then he looked across at George with one of his rare warm smiles, blinking a little behind his glasses. “It’s all in the game,” he said almost cheerfully.

“Is your own book finished, sir? You said the other day you were near the end.” He hoped this was the right question, the question that might open their sealed relationship like an envelope and all the things he wanted so much to talk about—Pen, his father—fall out.