'O-oh!' cried Trixie, with a gasp of delight, 'not "Sweet Bells Jangled," Mark?'
'No, not "Sweet Bells Jangled," it—it's a book you don't know about—a little thing I don't expect very much from, but my publishers seem to like it, and I can follow it up with the "Bells" afterwards.'
He was turning over the rough greyish pages as he spoke, and Trixie was peeping greedily at them, too, with her pretty chin dug into his shoulder.
'And did you really write all that?' she said; 'how interesting it looks, you clever boy! You might have told me you were doing it, though. What's it about?'
'How can I tell you before I know myself,' said Mark, quite forgetting himself in his impatience. 'I—I mean, Trixie, that I can't correct these proofs as they ought to be corrected while you stay here chattering.'
'I'll go in a minute, Mark; but you won't have time to correct them before dinner, you know. When did you write it?'
'What does it matter when I wrote it!' said Mark irritably; 'if it hadn't been written the proofs wouldn't be here, would they? Is there anything else you would like to know—how I wrote it, where I wrote it, why I wrote it? You seem to think it a most extraordinary thing that anything I write should be printed at all, Trixie.'
'I don't know why you should speak like that, Mark,' said Trixie, rather hurt; 'you know a little while ago you never expected such a thing yourself. I can't help wanting to know all I can about it. What will you say to Uncle Solomon?' she added, with a little quiver of laughter in her voice. 'You promised him to give up literature, you know.'
'Don't you remember the Arab gentleman in the poem?' said Mark lightly. 'He agreed to sell his steed, but when the time came it didn't come off—he didn't come off, either—he "flung them back their gold," and rode away. I shall fling Uncle Solomon back his gold, metaphorically, and gallop off on my Pegasus.'
'Ma won't like that,' prophesied Trixie, shaking her head wisely.