A Captain Diehart was there--a most
delightful man of fifty or so, who had just returned from a trip around
the world; and he fascinated us all by his lively recounting of certain
dramatic happenings in the Far East. Zulus had captured him once, and he
had come perilously close to death on so many occasions that it was a
miracle that he should be sitting here now, sipping his champagne and
smoking his cigarette.
On the way home--I had a habit of seeing Shelby to his doorstep during
this period--he turned to me and said:
"Isn't it strange, Allison, that nothing of that kind has ever happened
to me? I move about all the while, I look eagerly for excitement, I hope
always for the supreme adventure--and I never find it. Yet I love
romance. Why does it never come to me?"
I was silent for a few paces. I felt so sorry for him. For once he had
told me what was in his heart.
"You're in love with love," I said finally. "That's what's the matter
with your work, Shelby, if you'll let me say so. I wonder if you have
really loved a woman--or a friend, even? If the great thing should come
into your life, wouldn't it illuminate your whole literary expression?
Wouldn't you write eighty per cent better. Wouldn't everything you do be
sharpened splendidly alive? Why don't you meet--Miss Davis?"
"My God, man!" he let out.
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