At odds with himself, he ground out a dull article on "The New Poetry," the result of random reading among the works of the Cocoanut Tree poets; but it satisfied neither him nor the poets. He tried to make a plan for Loot, but it crumbled to nothing. He was too ignorant of that tumultuous metropolitan world to picture it except through other eyes. If he could have lived in it for a while, if somebody like Mrs. Tarrant had let him into its secrets, perhaps he could have made a book of it; but anything he did unaided would have to be borrowed from other books. Besides, he did not want to denounce or to show up, as most of the "society" novelists did, but to take apart the works of the machine, and find out what all those people behind the splendid house fronts signified in the general scheme of things. Until he understood that, he couldn't write about them. He brought his difficulty to Eric Rauch. "Unless I can think their thoughts it's no use," he said. Rauch looked puzzled, and seemed to regard the difficulty as an imaginary one. "Funny to me you can't get hold of a subject," he said; and Vance rejoined: "Oh, but I can—hundreds; they swarm. Only they're all subjects I don't know enough about to tackle them." "Well, I guess you're in the doldrums," Rauch commented; and the talk ended.

One day someone related in Vance's presence a tragic episode which had happened in a group of strolling actors. The picturesqueness of it seized on his imagination, and he tried to bring it to life; but here again he lacked familiarity with the conditions, and his ardour flagged. Fellows at the Cocoanut Tree talked a lot about working up a subject, about documentation and so forth; but Vance obscurely felt that he could not go out on purpose to hunt for local colour, and that inspiration must come to him in other ways. Perhaps a talk with a man like Tristram Fynes would given him his clue. He wrote and asked Fynes for an appointment; but he received no answer to his letter.