"Well, you have conceit enough to be anything," said Carol frankly. "Maybe you'll make it go, after all. I should like to have an author in the family and since Lark's lost interest, I suppose it will have to be you. I couldn't think of risking my complexion at such a precarious livelihood. But if you get stuck, I'll be glad to help you out a little. I really have an imagination myself, though perhaps you wouldn't think it."
"What makes you think you can write, Con?" inquired Lark, with genuine interest.
"I have already done it."
"Was it any good?"
Carol and Lark smiled at each other.
"Yes," said Carol, "she has the long-haired instinct. I see it now. They always say it is fine. Was it a masterpiece, Connie?" And when Connie hesitated, she urged, "Come on, confess it. Then we shall be convinced that you have found your field. They are always masterpieces. Was yours?"
"Well, considering my youth and inexperience, it was," Connie admitted, her eyes sparkling appreciatively. Carol's wit was no longer lost upon her, at any rate.
"Bring it out. Let's see it. I've never met a masterpiece yet,—except a dead one," said Lark.
"No—no," Connie backed up quickly. "You can't see it, and—don't ask any more about it. Has father gone out?"