"Just for writing a story." Wick grinned. "Philistine!"
"Oh, mother speaks about that—listen:
"'Do you remember that day, Caroline dear, when you wanted me to write a book for the competition? Just imagine "Sunlight and Shadow" or "One Maid's Word" being judged by the Committee that awarded that thousand pounds!"
"Poor mother. I mustn't forget to tell her when I write that Mr. Payne wrote a very nice letter about her new book. It's coming out in a few days. I do hope it'll be a success, poor darling. You know, it's a dreadful thing, John, but I can't get through a book of mother's nowadays."
"Can't you, my dear?"
"No. They are about such dull people. I wish I liked them, because she must know I don't."
"Oh, she's used to that," he answered. "Paul is remarkably frank about it. But go on; finish the letter."
The next page was devoted to a description of the famous pictures and statues which Mrs. Walbridge was making a point of seeing. It was plainly a surprise to her that this had turned out to be not altogether an unpleasant fulfilment of duty.
"'I really love some of the pictures,' she explained naïvely, 'and I almost forgot to come home for lunch the day I went to the Luxembourg. Some day I shall try to make time to go to the National Gallery.'"
Wick groaned. "Oh—oh dear! She's like a child," he said. "Why, do you know, she positively trembled with excitement when the train stopped and she first noticed one of those long, straight roads edged with poplars—the kind that are always in illustrated magazines. She even thought the fisher wives with their caps picturesque. I'm going to take her on some sprees in London when she gets back. We're going to the Tower together, and she wants to see the Cathedral at St. Albans."