"No, don't do that. Keep 'em, and reread 'em in a couple of years. That requires more courage, and courage is about the most useful thing in an artist's outfit." Vance was beginning to think it must be.

"Well," Frenside continued, "if ever you try a short essay, or a story, bring them along. Don't forget." He smiled a little, as if to bind up the wounds he had inflicted. "You never can tell," he concluded cryptically.

He held out his hand. The interview was over.

The interview was over; but when Vance reached the foot of the stairs he perceived its repercussions were only just beginning. He wandered on through a street or two, found himself in Union Square, and sat down under the meagre shade of its starved trees. The other people on the bench with him, listless sodden-looking men, collarless and perspiring, seemed like companions in misery who had preceded him a flight or two down the steep stairs of failure. Perhaps they too—or at least one among them—had tried for the impossible, as he was doing. He shivered a little at the sense of such kinship.