"But you forget my book will only be for myself. I don't know enough to write one for other people. Dimbie says I am very ignorant."
"Oh, of course! And that after all is the best sort of book, the one you write for yourself. Some publisher will be saved endless care and worry. Your friends will be saved the necessity of turning down side streets when they see you coming along—they have barely four-and-six for one of the classics, or a book they really want, let alone yours."
I laughed.
"You are not polite."
"No, Marguerite; I love you, and I want to save you from your friends. But perhaps some day when it is finished, when your year is over, when you are too busy, like so many modern girls, to do anything but play golf and bridge, or there may be another interest in your life, you might let me have a look at it. A manuscript written out of sheer happiness might be interesting, though a trifle tiresome. There has been The Sorrows of Werther. Why not The Joys of Marguerite? Besides, your grammar and punctuation might require some correction."
"Nanty," I said, "you are making fun of me, and I'm very cold."
"Marguerite," she commanded, "give me another kiss, and then I'll go. I have enjoyed my afternoon with the little bride."
"I hear the whistle of Dimbie's train."
"What an astonishing thing!" she remarked sarcastically.
"I mean, won't you stay and see him?"