“She watches you, I suppose, while you talk?” Gorgas asked.
“Tremendously! She leans forward and fixes me with her eyes. I think they must be black. Even across a big hall they burn at me.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Shouldn’t you expect it to? But it doesn’t. I get positive strength from her. She is the most attentive person I ever address. Every twist of her head is eloquent; I can catch the register of the value of everything I say. But I must get to know her better. She has ideas; no doubt of that; or I dream she has. And perhaps I am under some obligation to her. Someone has recently presented me with a mighty valuable book. It is a first edition, in good condition, too, of the second series of Bacon’s essays. Of course, I only guess that she sent it. It had my name on the cover, in a script that resembles hers. It was left in my room, too. Someone must have walked in and placed it on the table.... Which reminds me that I have a book for you.”
“Let’s see it.”
“Not until September 10th.”
“My birthday!”
“Yes. It is a first edition, and the only copy made.”
“It must be very valuable,” her eyes opened.
“It is to me. I hope it may be to you. I can tell you this much, I wrote it myself—”