“Hello!” he said, in a surprised tone. “You two look busy.”
“Indeed we are, Max,” said Freda, stopping her work. “Mauney—I mean Mr. Bard—is pouring forth his theories of history, reconstructed, and I, as you see, am his amanuensis.”
“Great stuff!” drawled Max, entering the room, and standing beside the sofa he continued: “You old bear, I’m glad you’re blossoming out into letters, and I’m glad you’ve got such an excellent amanuensis.”
Mauney glanced from his face to Freda’s with a peculiar feeling that he had been caught trespassing, ever so little, upon Lee’s property, but consoled himself with the knowledge that his relation to Miss MacDowell was frankly a commercial one, or at most, but friendly.
“How are things, Max?” he asked.
“So, so. I’m going home for a week’s rest. I just found out to-day that the sight of that laboratory was beginning to bore me to tears.” He paused to remove his overcoat. “Am I butting in?”
He turned toward Freda, as he asked the question.
“I suppose you are, Max. But who has a better license?”
“Hear, hear!” said Mauney. “Sit down, you prune, and have a smoke. I’ve just about drained myself of language, anyway, and I can smell beefsteak frying.”