"She wouldn't hear of it!"
"I see." Another silence. Why couldn't I think of something to say?
"She kept every letter you wrote her. They're up there in her bureau drawer. She was always reading 'em—over and over. She thought a lot of your writing, boy—of what you would do when—when she was dead." The last came out almost fiercely. I waited a moment, got hold of myself.
"Yes, sir," I brought out at last.
"I hope you'll make it all worth while."
"I will. I'll try. I'll do my best." I did not look up, for I could still feel his anxious eyes upon my face.
"Do you want to go back to Paris?"
"No, sir! I want to stay right here!" What was the matter with my fool voice?
"Have you got any plans for your writing here? How are you going about it to start?"
"Well, sir, to begin with—I've got some stuff I did abroad."