Oh! cursed gold! And now to get some more of it."
He went back to Grosvenor Street, sat down and began to try to invent a plot for this novel that he proposed to write. Do you think he could discover anything of the kind? He couldn't. For fourteen days and nights he devoted his every solitary moment to the task of devising a story with a really strong Heart Interest. Nothing came; nothing whatever; no plot of any sort at all. He toiled valiantly; he even moiled; whatever he did, the result was the same—blank paper. The truth is that Dunkle's genius was purely lyrical. For narrative he had no turn. He could do you three neat enough little four-line stanzas on "Twilight" or to "A Green Fly caught in a Spider's Web," or about "The Sewage Farm," but when it came to plotting a story, he simply wasn't
