The Duchess folded her fat hands and watched her departing offspring until the chartered launch was a speck on the horizon. Then she looked at her husband.
"Fancy!" she said.[110]
"Nevertheless," remarked the youthful novelist, coldly, "there is nothing on earth as ignoble as a best-seller."
"I wonder," ventured Duane, "whether you know which books actually do sell the best."
"Or which books of bygone days were the best-sellers?"
"Some among them are still best-sellers," added Athalie.
"A truly important book——" began the novelist, but Athalie interrupted him:
"O solemn child," she said, "write on!—and thank the gods for their important gifts to you of hand and mind! So that you keep tired eyes awake that otherwise would droop to brood on pain or sorrow you have done well; and what you have written to this end will come nearer being important than anything you ever write."
"True, by the nine muses!" exclaimed Stafford with emphasis. Athalie glanced at him out of sweetly humourous eyes.
"There is a tenth muse," she said. "Did you never hear of her?"