started to cry. That was one
story he had saved to write. He
knew at least twenty good
stories from out there and he
had never written one. Why?
"You tell them why," he said.
"Why what, dear?"
"Why nothing."
She didn't drink so much, now,
since she had him. But if he
lived he would never write
about her, he knew that now.
Nor about any of them. The
rich were dull and they drank
too much, or they played too
much backgammon. They were
dull and they were repetitious.
He remembered poor Julian
and his romantic awe of them
and how he had started a story
once that began, "The very rich
are different from you and me."
And how some one had said to
Julian, Yes, they have more
money. But that was not
humorous to Julian. He thought
they were a special glamourous
race and when he found they
weren't it wrecked him just as
much as any other thing that
wrecked him.
He had been contemptuous of
those who wrecked. You did
not have t