"Come," she said, gaily, "be a good child and read the pretty story to little sister."
She sat down on the edge of his bed; he, already seated at his desk, frowned at the pile of manuscript before him.
"I'd rather talk," he said.
"About what?"
"Anything. Honestly, Steve, I'll let you see it when it's typed. But I rather hate to show anything until it's done—I don't like to have people see the raw edges and the machinery."
"I'm not 'people.' How horrid. Also, it makes a difference when a girl is not only your sister but also somebody who intends to devote her life to artistic self-expression. You can read your story to that kind of girl, I should hope!"
"Haven't you given that up?"
"Given up what?"
"That mania for self-expression, as you call it."
"Of course not."