The Return of the Prodigal

by May Sinclair

"Oh," I said, "is that all?"

I must have struck her as looking rather queer, for she said, "All? Why, whatever did you think it was?"

With a desperate courage I dashed into it there where I saw my opening.

"I thought he'd given it up."

"Given it up?"

Her dismay showed me what I had yet to go through. But I staved it off a bit. I tried half-measures.

"Well, yes," I said, "you see, he's frightfully driven with his Lankester book."

"But—we said—we wouldn't have him driven for the world. Papa can wait. He has waited."

I ignored it and the tragic implication.

"You see," I said, "Lankester's book's awfully important. It means no end to him. If he makes the fine thing of it we think he will, it'll place him. What's more, it'll place Lankester. He's still—as far as the big outside public is concerned—waiting to be placed."