He hesitated. "It means a great deal to me. Sometimes I think I could pull myself together and begin again, but—I'm getting old, and I'm not sure I'd care to try." After a pause he added a little stiffly, as if not quite sure of the effect of his words: "That's the penalty of being alone in life, I suppose. We men are grand-stand players: we need an audience, some one person who really cares whether we succeed or fail. Your brother, for instance, has won more in the building of the S. R. & N. than I can ever hope to win."
Eliza felt a trifle conscious, too, and she did not look at him when she said: "Poor, lonely old Omar Khayyam! You deserve all Dan has. I think I understand why you haven't been to see us."
"I've been too busy; this thing has kept me here every hour. It's my child, and one can't neglect his own child, you know—even if it isn't a real one." He laughed apologetically. "See! there's where we took the skiff that day we ran Jackson Glacier. He's harmless enough now. You annoyed me dreadfully that morning, Eliza, and—I've never quite understood why you were so reckless."
"I wanted the sensation. Writers have to live before they can write. I've worked the experience into my novel."
"Indeed? What is your book about?"
"Well—it's the story of a railroad-builder, of a fellow who risked everything he had on his own judgment. It's—you!"
"Why, my dear!" cried O'Neil, turning upon her a look of almost comic surprise. "I'm flattered, of course, but there's nothing romantic or uncommon about me."
"You don't mind?"
"Of course not. But there ought to be a hero, and love, and—such things—in a novel. You must have a tremendous imagination."
"Perhaps. I'm not writing a biography, you know. However, you needn't be alarmed; it will never be accepted."