This speech was a compound of sweet and bitter. Albert characteristically selected the sweet.
“Helen,” he asked, in his most confidential tone, “would you like to have me try and write something? Say, would you?”
“Of course I would. Oh, will you?”
“Well, if YOU asked me I might. For your sake, you know.”
She stopped and stamped her foot impatiently.
“Oh, DON'T be silly!” she exclaimed. “I don't want you to do it for my sake. I want you to do it for your own sake. Yes, and for your grandfather's sake.”
“My grandfather's sake! Great Scott, why do you drag him in? HE doesn't want me to write poetry.”
“He wants you to do something, to succeed. I know that.”
“He wants me to stay here and help Labe Keeler and Issy Price. He wants me to spend all my life in that office of his; that's what HE wants. Now hold on, Helen! I'm not saying anything against the old fellow. He doesn't like me, I know, but—”
“You DON'T know. He does like you. Or he wants to like you very much indeed. He would like to have you carry on the Snow Company's business after he has gone, but if you can't—or won't—do that, I know he would be very happy to see you succeed at anything—anything.”