“She works so frightfully hard.”
“Land sakes, work agrees with you, Mary! You look simply great. If your new book does as well as the old one I suppose porches won't satisfy you—you'll be wanting to build an ell on the house?”
“That's just what I do want,” said Mary, smiling. “I want to have a spare room, and proper place for the babies. We're awfully crowded. Did I tell you Mr. Farraday had some lovely plans that he had made years ago, for a wing?”
“You don't say!”
“Yes, but I'm afraid we'll have to wait another year for that, till I can increase my short story output.”
“My, it seems to me you write them like a streak.”
Mary shook her head. “No, after Baby is weaned I expect to work faster, and ever so much better.”
“Well, if you do any better than you are doing, Frances Hodgson Burnett won't be in it; that's all I can say.”
“Oh, Sparrow!” smiled Mary, “she writes real grown-up novels, too, and I can only do silly little children's things.”
“They're not silly, Mary Byrd, I can tell you that,” sniffed Miss Mason, shaking out her paper.