"Wolfe liked it," said Mark. "And I like it too," he added ungraciously. He wished that he could have said he hated it; but Mark always found it difficult to tell a lie about his personal feelings, or about any facts that involved him in a false position.
"And now before you go down to tea with Cass Dale, you will write to your uncle, won't you, and show me the letter?"
Mark groaned.
"It's so difficult to thank people. It makes me feel silly."
"Well, darling, mother wants you to. So sit down like a dear boy and get it done."
"I think my nib is crossed."
"Is it? You'll find another in my desk."
"But, mother, yours are so thick."
"Please, Mark, don't make any more excuses. Don't you want to do everything you can to help me just now?"
"Yes, of course," said Mark penitently, and sitting down in the window he stared out at the yellow November sky, and at the magpies flying busily from one side of the valley to the other.