"Yes; I suppose that a preacher must necessarily look upon a woman as a sort of trap door. He may recover from the disgrace of wine, but woman—" I glanced toward the bench, to find Mrs. Estell engaged in the very human act of rubbing her eyes. I did not wait to finish the sentence, but stepped off briskly; and, looking round before she recognized my coming, I saw that Washington had dropped his dignity and was bending among the flowers. She was not startled when she saw me; she did not even show surprise, for my odd-hour presence had become commonplace.
"I'm glad you came," she said in quiet frankness, and with a smile of welcome. "Sit down. Isn't it a sleepy day?"
"Yes. And even the soft air is gently snoring among the leaves," I replied, rather pleased with the fancy.
"Don't talk that way," she said. "You'll put me to sleep again." She turned her face away to hide a yawn. "Have you begun work on your play?"
"Well, yes, I have taken some very important steps. Day before yesterday I got some paper, got a pint of ink yesterday, and I expect to get a box of pens to-day."
"Oh, you are making great progress. You are going to let me read it, I suppose?"
"Yes, after I've had it typewritten."
"Oh, I won't want to read it then—all the character of the work will be gone—I couldn't find any of your moods and troubles in it; couldn't tell where it was easy nor where you got stuck. I always think that handwriting holds something for me alone, but a typewritten thing is intended for everybody. The other day I got a typewritten letter from Mr. Estell, and I sent it back to him without reading it. Of course, he had to dictate it. And he sent an apology by the next mail."
"Also dictated?" I asked.
"It would have been just like him," she laughed, "but it was scratched with a pen. I hate anything that's dictated; I actually hate it. Some time ago I read that a favorite author of mine dictated his books or worked the typewriter himself, and since then I can't read him. It seems to me that the mellowest work was done by the poets when they wrote with a quill. Imagine Byron setting fire to a page with a typewriter!"