Wade frowned a moment, thinking deeply.
"Well," he said finally, "you might have him go around and upset the bird-nests and spill the little birds out. How would that do?"
"Beautifully! Oh, he would be wicked; even I couldn't like a fairy who did that. Thank you ever so much, Mr. Herrick; I would never have thought of that myself. What a beautifully wicked imagination you must have! I'll make Nettlesting do that very thing."
"No, don't change him, please; I like him the way he is. When will that story he published?"
"Oh, I may never finish it, and, if I do, it may never be accepted."
Wade pondered a minute. Then—"Of course, you know it's perfect nonsense," he charged.
"My story? Isn't that a little cruel, Mr. Herrick?"
"I don't mean your story. I mean the idea of you having to write things to make a living when—when there's all that money that really belongs to you. I wish, Miss Walton, you'd look at it sensibly."
"Mr. Herrick, you're not flattering any more."
"Can't help it," answered Wade, doggedly. "You ought to consider the matter from—from a practical point of view. Now you can't deny—"