"Three years," said Kara, continuing his examination of the bookshelf.
"I envy those fellows who run round the world writing books," said John, puffing reflectively at his pipe. "They have all the best of it."
Kara turned. He stood immediately behind the author and the other could not see his face. There was, however, in his voice an unusual earnestness and an unusual quiet vehemence.
"What have you to complain about?" he asked, with that little drawl of his. "You have your own creative work—the most fascinating branch of labour that comes to a man. He, poor beggar, is bound to actualities. You have the full range of all the worlds which your imagination gives to you. You can create men and destroy them, call into existence fascinating problems, mystify and baffle ten or twenty thousand people, and then, at a word, elucidate your mystery."
John laughed.
"There is something in that," he said.
"As for the rest of your life," Kara went on in
