“That title is certainly better than 'Homeless in Hades,' although I admit that I was homeless and that the country was the worst Hades that could be imagined.”
“But you will write the book—oh, you must promise us to write the book. If we get him to promise we shall be all right, Agnes; he is not the sort of man who would ever break his promise!”
“Oh, no, no; a promise with him would ever be held sacred,” said Agnes.
“Promise—promise,” cried Clare, going in front of him with clasped hands, in the prettiest possible attitude of humorous imploration.
“A book of travel would be of no value without illustrations—so much I clearly perceive,” said he. “I wonder if you can draw.'
“Oh yes; I can draw in a sort of way,” she replied. “I did nothing else but draw for some years.”
“That is a solution of the problem,” he said, putting out his hand to her. “I will write the book if you do the drawings for it.”
She shrank back for a moment and her face became rosy.
“Oh, I don't think that I could draw well enough to illustrate your book,” she cried.
“Ah, have you seen the illustrations to any book of travel recently published?” he asked. “No, I thought you had not or you wouldn't say that your capacity fell short of so humble a standard as is required for such a purpose. My dear Clare, cannot you see that the plan which I have suggested is the only one possible for such a work as mine? I must have an artist beside me who will be able to draw everything from my instructions. Nothing must be left to the imagination. An error in any point of detail would make the illustration worthless. Ah, now you see it is not on me but on you that the production of the great work depends, and yet you hold back. It is now my turn for bullying you as you bullied me. It rests with you to say whether the book will appear or not.”