rial neatly, to select it. At college it had been different. There he had not tried to create fiction. He had written about plays he had seen in the theatre, incidents he had observed in the street. Here he saw too much, too much and too little. The habits of these people were both too familiar and too annoying to him. He loathed his landlady and her grandchildren. They were so good-hearted and so sordid. He had hated his working companions at the Cletheredge Building. They reminded him too painfully of his birthright. More than the others he detested the young Negro writers who were making names for themselves. Mary often pleaded with him to see more of them, but he always sullenly refused. He could not bear to think that they were getting on while he was still struggling at the foot of the ladder.
Unexpectedly one night, however, the scheme of a story came to him quite spontaneously—it had been suggested by an item in a newspaper. Elated, he immediately rushed to Mary to tell her the news. When he greeted her he was out of breath from running upstairs.
Whatever is the matter, Byron? she demanded, after she had kissed him.
I've got a wonderful idea for a story, Mary! he announced, puffing.
That's fine, dearest. Tell me about it.
He sat down to consider. The details were not
