“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Hope. “He often does that. You can hear him in the dining-room when you’re setting table or something. He does it sometimes for ten or fifteen minutes, and then he’s as quiet as a mouse for hours and hours! I suppose it’s his writing, Jeff. He—he is seeking inspiration.”
“I hope he finds it before your carpet is worn out!” Jeffrey laughed. “I wonder what he is writing, Hope.”
“I think it’s a book,” said Hope.
“What kind of a book?”
Hope shook her head. “I don’t know. Perhaps—perhaps it’s a novel, Jeff.”
“A novel! Fancy Nancy Hanks writing a novel!” Jeffrey laughed at the thought of it.
“I don’t see why not,” Hope demurred. “I think he’s awfully smart, Jeff, don’t you? Don’t you think he knows a terrible lot?”
“Y-es, I suppose he does, only—only he doesn’t look like a novelist, does he?”
“I don’t think Sir Walter Scott looked much like a novelist, but he was one. And—and I don’t suppose all novelists can look the same, anyway.”
“I suppose not. But I’ll bet you that book of his is some sort of a history or a Latin text-book. Why, Nancy wouldn’t waste his time on anything as—as flippant as a novel, Hope!”