"What was you making in your little book when I came up?"
"Character sketches."
"Sho! Let's have a look. I like pictures."
"They're pen-pictures."
"All the same to me. Pencil, pen, or paint-brush."
"But you do not understand. They are word pictures. Descriptions, you know."
"Well, now you have got me! Show up, anyhow."
Constance opened the little book, and spread it out on her knee.
"I am getting material for a novel," she said impressively. "The great American novel has yet to be written. I do not want you to think me conceited, Jock, but I have had exceptional advantages—I may be the chosen one to write this—this great novel."
"Who knows?" Jock's serious gaze was a perfect disguise for his true inward state.