"The books?" Vance looked at him vaguely. In this shimmering dubious world in which he had lately lived the story of the books at the Willows had become as forgotten and far-off a thing as the song in one of those poems Miss Spear had read to him; Miss Spear herself was only a mist among mists; all Vance could think of now was that he must get this taciturn man behind the cigar to find him a job.

"Why, yes, the books turned up," Frenside repeated.

"How?" Vance asked with an effort.

"I don't know the particulars. It seems Lewis Tarrant—you remember that fair young man who's always up at Eaglewood?—well, he managed to buy them back … advertised, I believe … offered a reward… . They never caught the thief; but that didn't so much matter. The main thing was to get the books. So that question's closed."

"Well, I'm glad," Vance forced himself to say. And he knew he would be, in the other world of solid matter, if ever he got back to it… .

He felt that Frenside was looking at him more attentively. "That's not what you came for, though? Well, let's hear." He settled back in his chair, listening in silence to what Vance had to say, and drumming on the table as if he were rapping out his secret thoughts on a typewriter.

Vance stammered through the tale of his vain quest, and wondered if perhaps Mr. Frenside could recommend him to a newspaper—but the other cut him short. He hadn't any pull of that sort; sorry; but Vance had better go straight home if he had an opening on a newspaper there. Vance turned pale and made no answer; he cursed himself inwardly for having appealed, against his better judgment, to this man who cared nothing for him and was perhaps prejudiced by what had happened at the Willows.

"All right, sir, thank you," he said, getting to his feet, and turning to the door. As he did so, Frenside spoke. "See here—going home's a nasty dose to swallow sometimes, isn't it? I remember … at your age… . Why do you want to go on a newspaper, anyhow?"

Vance, leaning against the doorway, answered: "I want to learn to be a writer."

"And that's the reason—" Frenside gave a gruff laugh.

Vance looked at him curiously. "Is there any other way?"

"There's only one way. Buckle down and write. Newspapers won't help you."

Vance felt the blood rush to his forehead. "I have … I have … tried to write… ."

Frenside reached for a match, relit his cigar, and once more said: "Sit down." Vance obeyed. "What have you written? Got it in your pocket, I suppose? Let's see."