“Do you know who wrote that?”
“No.”
“I wrote that,” he broke out, and leaned forward.
“You did?”
“Yes!”
“It’s awful nice,” she repeated.
This was not very strong applause, but it was more than sufficient for Carstairs, and he grew reckless. In one moment, he had confessed himself the author of the work, and in the next, such was his present rashness, he was about to go much farther.
“How would you like—” but he stopped, and smiled in a happy way.
“What?” she urged him.
“You’re sure you like it?” he repeated.