"I've begun on it again."
"After you go home, I mean. When you go to work again, make believe I'm David Copperfield's Dora—holding the pens!" Too late she saw her error and hedged. "Or cups of tea to keep up your strength."
"I like pens better. If Dora were there—"
"One more cup? You've only had one. The cups are no size at all. And while you drink it, tell me about your heroine. What have you named her?"
"Dora," he said promptly. "You see, you've helped already."
It was pleasant, drinking tea like this, with John Bradford there, opposite, having his second cup. A pleasant way to drink tea—with a John! Miss Theodosia hugged herself happily. Even the forgotten little nightgown on the floor failed to diminish her content. She had not forgotten Elly Precious; she was merely making the most of the ameliorations the gods offered. The kind gods. But conscience had to put in its pious oar.
"I'm having a beautiful time; I don't know whether you are or not. But I'm going to send you back to that love story. I hope the Recording Angel will give me a white mark for it, or cross out a black one. The goodness of me! I've been sitting here trying to strangle my conscience, but you see it isn't my own—it's my grandmother's conscience; you have to respect your grandmother's conscience. You'll have to go."
"I can work on it here," he pleaded, but she shook her head mournfully.
"I haven't the materials. It takes special paper, doesn't it, and pens?"
"I could—er—think up my plot."