Molly paused and blushed. She felt ashamed to discuss her poor rhymes with this learned man nearly a dozen years older than she was.
“There’s no money in poetry,” she went on, “and I thought I would switch off to prose. I have written a short story and—I hope you won’t be angry—I’ve brought it over for you to look at. I knew you looked over some of Judith’s stories.”
“Of course I shan’t be angry, child. I’m glad to help you, although I am not a fiction writer and therefore might hardly be thought competent to judge. Let’s see what you have.” He held out his hand for the manuscript. “On second thought,” he continued, “suppose you read it aloud to me. Girls’ handwriting is generally much alike—hard to make out.”
Molly, trembling with stage fright, her face crimson, began to read. The professor, resting his chin on his interlocked fingers, turned his whimsical brown eyes full upon her and never shifted his gaze once during the entire reading, which lasted some twenty-five minutes. When she had finished, Molly dropped the papers in her lap and waited.
“Well, what do you think of it? Please don’t mince matters. Tell me the truth.”
The professor came back to life with a start. She knew at once that he had not heard a word.
“Oh, er—I beg your pardon,” he said. “Very good. Very good, indeed. Suppose you leave the manuscript with me. I’ll look it over again to-night.”
She rose to go. After all she had no right to complain, since she had asked this favor of a very busy man; but she did wish he had paid attention.
“Wait a moment, Miss Brown, there was something I wanted to say. What was it now?” He rubbed his head, and then thrust his hands into his pockets. “Oh, yes. This is what I wanted to say—have an apple?” A flat Japanese basket on the table was filled with apples. “Excuse my not passing the basket, but they roll over. Take several. Help yourself.”
He made Molly take three, one for Nance, one for Judy and one for herself. Then he saw her to the outer door, bowing silently, all the time like a man in a dream.