"No fear of that with you," I laughed.
"No, I should hope not," she puffed energetically.
"Well, anyway," I found myself reassuring her quickly, "even as it is, you have three weeks to think it over—to back out in. Three weeks is a good long time, Gertrude. Much can happen in three weeks."
On the table before me lay a new life of Leonardo da Vinci, just arrived from Paris that day. My fingers itched to open it and turn the pages. But that would have been rude, so I forebore.
"I am not like that," Gertrude murmured reflectively, "and you know it, Ranny."
"Of course not," I guiltily assented.
"I know," she tapped my cheek with a playful finger—Gertrude can be very charming if she thinks of it—"I know perfectly what I want to do. And when I make up my mind to do a thing I stick to it."
And so she does, the clever girl!
"I wish I were like you," I muttered. "I am a sort of drifter, I'm afraid."
"That's why you need a manager," laughed Gertrude. "Wait till you've got me. Then you won't be just running after books and telling yourself what you're going to do some day. You'll be doing, publishing, lecturing; you'll be known—famous."