“It doesn't seem possible any one could do that to you,” she said, in a low voice. “No. He's not kind. He ought to be proud to help you to the leisure to write books; it should be his greatest privilege to have them published for you—”
“Can't you SEE him?” Bibbs interrupted, a faint ripple of hilarity in his voice. “If he could understand what you're saying—and if you can imagine his taking such a notion, he'd have had R. T. Bloss put up posters all over the country: 'Read B. Sheridan. Read the Poet with a Punch!' No. It's just as well he never got the—But what's the use? I've never written anything worth printing, and I never shall.”
“You could!” she said.
“That's because you've never seen the poor little things I've tried to do.”
“You wouldn't let me, but I KNOW you could! Ah, it's a pity!”
“It isn't,” said BIBBS, honestly. “I never could—but you're the kindest lady in this world, Miss Vertrees.”
She gave him a flashing glance, and it was as kind as he said she was. “That sounds wrong,” she said, impulsively. “I mean 'Miss Vertrees.' I've thought of you by your first name ever since I met you. Wouldn't you rather call me 'Mary'?”
Bibbs was dazzled; he drew a long, deep breath and did not speak.
“Wouldn't you?” she asked, without a trace of coquetry.
“If I CAN!” he said, in a low voice.