"Thanks." He drawled the word. Leaning back on one elbow he stretched out as though assured that she would make no further objections to his presence. She ignored him completely and very deliberately arranged her papers and resumed writing.
For a time he lay silent, watching the pencil travel the width of the page—and then back. A mass of completed manuscript lay at her side, the pages covered with carefully written, legible words. She had always taken a pardonable pride in her penmanship. For a while he watched her, puzzled, furtively trying to decipher some of the words that appeared upon the pages. But the distance was too great for him and he finally gave it up and fell to looking at her instead, though determined to solve the wordy mystery that was massed near her.
Finally finding the silence irksome, he dropped an experimental word, speaking casually. "You must have been to school a heap—writin' like you do."
She gave him no answer, being at that moment absorbed in a thought which she was trying to transcribe before it should take wings and be gone forever.
"Writin' comes easy to some people," he persisted.
The thought had been set down; she turned very slightly. "Yes," she said looking steadily at him, "it does. So does impertinence."
He smiled easily. "I ain't aimin' to be impertinent," he returned. "I wouldn't reckon that askin' you what you are writin' would be impertinent. It's too long for a letter."
"It is a novel," she returned shortly.
He smiled, exulting over this partial concession. "I reckon to write a book you must be some special kind of a woman," he observed admiringly.
She was silent. He sat up and leaned toward her, his eyes flashing with a sudden passion.