“I don’t understand.”

“Do you think I would have come here if it were a light matter? No, I tell you, it is a matter of life and death to you, at least as an artist.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Have you done a stroke of work since I last saw you?”

“Yes, let me see, surely, magazine articles and a poem.”

“That is not what I want to know. Have you accomplished anything big? Have you grown since this summer? How about your novel?”

“I — I have almost finished it in my mind, but I have found no chance to begin with the actual writing. I was sick of late, very sick.”