“If you have time,” he said. “But perhaps you are busy.”
“Me—busy? Oh no! I’m the most leisurely person in the world. I’m just crazy to read your impressions. But what are your impressions about?”
She sat down and leaned her elbows on the edge of the desk.
“History.”
“Dear me,” she sighed, with a little chuckle. “How disappointing. I, too, have my own impressions of history, or should I say the history machine. I thought you were writing a romance with a lot of thrills in it. However, I’m anxious to see what you think of history.”
For a moment she turned through the pages of his scrap-book, reading odd paragraphs here and there.
“I’d rather talk to you about it,” she admitted, at length. “I’ll start by asking you what history is.”
“I’m not strong on definitions,” he replied, glancing at the base of the desk lamp, purposely to avoid the gaze of her deep eyes. “And I’m hopeless when subjected to a catechism.”
“Good. I knew you were. If I were to ask Nutbrown Hennigar that question—of course I know better—he’d proceed to bore me for an hour. Do you know, I hate history like sin. I wouldn’t stay at this job of mine, except I’ve got to live by the sweat of my brow. There’s Robert Freeman—just a kind of hard-boiled brains—he gives me the creeps. Alfred Tanner is bad enough. He’s pretty well submerged in the business, too, although he has preserved a sense of humor. And Hennigar. What do you think?”