Masters resumed his place at the other end of the seat. Had book in hand too: manuscript book. He had come out with intent to write; told himself that fulfilment was necessary. But he had Gracie to reckon with.
The sharp eyes of that four-year-old little maid were furtively fixed on the magic pen. She was trying hard to fulfil the injunction: Be good—from the adult standpoint. But gradually the admonition was fading from her mind—she was very human.
After a while—a courage-summoning period—the little hands were laced behind her, and boldly facing the owner of the attraction, the little one addressed him, in a kind of I Dare You voice:
"I could write with a pen like that!"
For a second time the child's voice brought the man's attention away from his work.
"Could you?"
He smiled as he spoke. Looked up from his book as he did so. Then, infusing a note of doubt in his voice, enquired:
"Are you sure?"
"Y—yes. Quite!"
Then, as an afterthought, possibly by way of redemption of the hesitation, the child continued: