“Writing a story.”
“O, Judith, not another one,” he exclaimed in pretended dismay.
“I had to. It was burning in my bones. Don’t you know I got five dollars for the last one?”
“Can nothing but a five-dollar bill quench the burning in your bones?”
“Oh, yes; the burning is quenched by writing it. I am quenched now for quite a while.”
“What was your inspiration this time?”
“Something you said Sunday evening.”
“Tell me.”
“I will read it to you in your earliest leisure.”
“Do you intend to keep this thing up and be a dreadful literary creature?”