“Oh, splendid! The MS. of a book! I shall be delighted. What a nice kind of present.”
“I hope you will think so,” he rumpled his hair comically. “I’ve put a lot into it—five years. But that’s all I’m going to tell you,” he foresaw her question. “Birthday gifts are secrets.... You won’t tell anybody about it, will you?”
She agreed. What girl does not hug a secret?
“But oh, Allen Blynn, why did you tell me in April? I shall wear myself out thinking— Is it fiction?” beaming.
“Bless my soul, no!”
“Oh, a book on literature!” mildly enthusiastic.
“No-o.”
“Pedagogy?” mournfully.
“Certainly not!”
“Essays?” brightening up.