As he rowed, he watched her and, seeing her thoughtful expression, suddenly asked her, “Jane, what are you wondering about?”
“About Breck,” she said frankly.
“What do you want to know about him?” he asked, smiling at her utter frankness.
“Whatever he wants to tell me.”
“That is a large order, because do you know, Jane, I want to tell you everything good or bad that has ever happened to me. I’ve wanted to tell you several things for some time, but I felt that I had no right to burden you with my affairs.”
“Breck, you know I’ve wanted to know about you but felt that I had no right to pry into those same affairs. Do you remember that night at Gloucester, when you got those two telegrams? I saw you frown at one and grin at the other. It was all I could do to keep from asking what had happened, ’specially about the one you didn’t seem to like,” she confessed.
“The one I liked was from a friend of mine in New York. I left a lot of stories with him and asked him to get the stuff decently copied and send some of them around to different magazines for me. The telegram told me that the Saturday Evening Post had accepted a story and wanted to see more. That tickled me mightily, because it is the first luck I have had with a big magazine. The other was from my sister, assuring me that my father was as mad at me as ever.”
“I wondered why you didn’t write, Breck, you are always so keenly interested in people’s actions and reactions. I am awfully glad the Post took the story. Will you tell me why your father is mad at you, too?”