Thurley found intriguers and hysterical hikers in full swing in the city, but it was good to have a hum of life and progress once again. Caleb dropped in to tell of the success of “The Patriotic Burglar” which had gone into six editions.
“Have you read it?” he asked, snuggling in an easy chair.
She shook her head. “What do you hear from Ernestine? Collin wrote a postal which I found when I came in from the Corners.”
Caleb laughed. “I don’t think Beethoven and Bach will make a hit; Ernestine will pack up her music in her kit bag and blow back ... but you ought to read my book—it was like rolling off a log to write it—”
Thurley frowned.
“Any other time it would have been too thin to have got by, but every subway advertises it and there is a stampede outside the bookstores. I have raked in a harvest.”
The gray angel of Thurley prompted a reproof.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded gaily. “You’re too pretty to scold.”
“It is cheating to write drivel—when Bliss’s and Ernestine’s ideals for you—”
Caleb rose. “I’m off,” he had a petulant air like Mark’s flippant unrest. “If people want what I write, they shall have it! We may as well have as good a time as we can; it seems to be the main thing these days.”