At that moment a tap sounded upon the door panel.
"Come in," called Peter carelessly, supposing that a pupil had returned for some forgotten possession. And he did not even look around until an amused voice inquired: "So absorbed, Professor Peter?" Then he turned to see Mrs. Caldwell, an old-fashioned picture in silvery gray, smiling at him from the doorway.
"I've come for a serious talk," said she, when he had seated her beside the sunniest window and established himself close by.
"Well," he answered ruefully, "you've come to the right place and the right person. I was just considering—in these scholarly surroundings—how I am wasting my life!"
"Really?" And she beamed on him hopefully. "Because that's the beginning of better things. You could amount to so much, Peter!"
But he shook his head: "Not here. And I'm too lazy to leave Shadyville."
"Why not here? I don't want you to leave Shadyville. I can't do without you! But I want you to do something splendid here. Peter, why don't you write a book?"
He laughed: "Dear Mrs. Caldwell, to write a book requires more than the determination or the wish to write one."
"Genius?"
"Not necessarily. But at least a special kind of ability. The divine fire has never burned on my hearth—not even a tiny spark of it!"