“Would you really like that?”
“Indeed I would.”
“Then I will do it. I mean that I will try, for I am sure I cannot succeed. But—you did not think of that—where can we read without being interrupted? I do not propose to give your sister the benefit——”
“In Central Park—on fine days. There are quiet places there.”
“Will you go there with me alone?” George asked in some surprise.
“Yes. Why not? Have I not told you that I love you—a little?”
“I bless you for it, dear,” said George.
And so they parted.
CHAPTER IX.
George felt like a man who has committed himself to take part in some public competition although not properly prepared for the contest, and during the night that succeeded his last meeting with Constance he slept little. He had promised to write a book. That was bad enough, considering that he felt so little fitted for the task. But, at least, if he had undertaken to finish the work, revise it and polish it and eliminate all the errors he could discover before bringing it to Miss Fearing in its final shape, he could have comforted himself with the thought that the first follies he committed would be known only to himself. He had promised, however, to read the chapters to Constance as he wrote them, one by one, and the thought filled him with dismay. The charming prospect of numberless meetings with her was marred by the fear of being ridiculous in her eyes. It was for her alone that the book was to be written. It would be a failure and he would not even attempt to publish it, but the certainty that the public would not witness his discomfiture brought no consolation with it. Better a thousand times to be laughed at by the critics than to see a pained look of disappointment in Constance’s eyes. Nevertheless he considered his promise sacred, and, after all, it was Constance who had driven him to make it. He had protested his incapacity as well as he could. She would see that he had been right and would acknowledge the wisdom of waiting a little longer before making the great attempt.