It would be interesting to know to what extent the work of authors isinfluenced by their private affairs. If life is flowing smoothly, arethe novels they write in that period of content coloured withoptimism? And if things are running crosswise, do they work off theresultant gloom on their faithful public? If, for instance, Mr. W. W.

　　Jacobs had toothache, would he write like Hugh Walpole? If Maxim Gorkywere invited to lunch by Trotsky, to meet Lenin, would he sit down anddash off a trifle in the vein of Stephen Leacock? Probably the eminenthave the power of detaching their writing self from their living,work-a-day self; but, for my own part, the frame of mind in which Inow found myself had a disastrous effect on my novel that was to be. Ihad designed it as a light comedy effort. Here and there a page or twoto steady the reader and show him what I could do in the way of pathosif I cared to try; but in the main a thing of sunshine and laughter.

　　But now great slabs of gloom began to work themselves into the schemeof it. A magnificent despondency became its keynote. It would not do.

　　I felt that I must make a resolute effort to shake off my depression.

　　More than ever the need of conciliating the professor was borne inupon me. Day and night I spurred my brain to think of some suitablemeans of engineering a reconciliation.

　　In the meantime I worked hard among the fowls, drove furiously on thelinks, and swam about the harbour when the affairs of the farm did notrequire my attention.

　　Things were not going well on our model chicken farm. Little accidentsmarred the harmony of life in the fowl-run. On one occasion a hen--notAunt Elizabeth, I am sorry to say,--fell into a pot of tar, and cameout an unspeakable object. Ukridge put his spare pair of tennis shoesin the incubator to dry them, and permanently spoiled the future ofhalf-a-dozen eggs which happened to have got there first. Chickenskept straying into the wrong coops, where they got badly pecked by theresidents. Edwin slew a couple of Wyandottes, and was only saved fromexecution by the tears of Mrs. Ukridge.

　　In spite of these occurrences, however, his buoyant optimism neverdeserted Ukridge.

　　"After all," he said, "What's one bird more or less? Yes, I know Imade a fuss when that beast of a cat lunched off those two, but thatwas simply the principle of the thing. I'm not going to pay large sumsfor chickens purely in order that a cat which I've never liked canlunch well. Still, we've plenty left, and the eggs are coming inbetter now, though we've still a deal of leeway to make up yet in thatline. I got a letter from Whiteley's this morning asking when my firstconsignment was going to arrive. You know, these people make a mistakein hurrying a man. It annoys him. It irritates him. When we really getgoing, Garny, my boy, I shall drop Whiteley's. I shall cut them out ofmy list and send my eggs to their trade rivals. They shall have asharp lesson. It's a little hard. Here am I, worked to death lookingafter things down here, and these men have the impertinence to botherme about their wretched business. Come in and have a drink, laddie,and let's talk it over."It was on the morning after this that I heard him calling me in avoice in which I detected agitation. I was strolling about thepaddock, as was my habit after breakfast, thinking about Phyllis andtrying to get my novel into shape. I had just framed a more thanusually murky scene for use in the earlier part of the book, whenUkridge shouted to me from the fowl-run.