"Lead her on to talk about you—yes!" and Helmsley nodded his head sagaciously.
"David, my dear old man, you will interrupt me,"—and Angus laughed like a boy—"Lead her on, I say,—and find out whether she likes me ever so little—and then——"
"And then?" queried Helmsley, his old eyes beginning to sparkle—"Must I sing your praises to her?"
"Sing my praises! No, by Jove!—there's nothing to praise in me. I don't want you to say a word, David. Let her speak—hear what she says—and then—and then tell me!"
"Then tell you—yes—yes, I see!" And Helmsley nodded again in a fashion that was somewhat trying to Reay's patience. "But, suppose she finds fault with you, and says you are not at all the style of man she likes—what then?"
"Then,"—said Reay, gloomily—"my book will never be finished!"
"Dear, dear!" Helmsley raised his hands with a very well acted gesture of timid concern—"So bad as all that!"
"So bad as all that!" echoed Reay, with a quick sigh; "Or rather so good as all that. I don't know how it has happened, David, but she has quite suddenly become the very life of my work. I don't think I could get on with a single page of it, if I didn't feel that I could go to her and ask her what she thinks of it."
"But,"—said Helmsley, in a gentle, argumentative way—"all this is very strange! She is not an educated woman."
Reay laughed lightly.