“Don’t speak to me,” I cried; “I’m at a critical point.”
With which I ran my fingers through my hair, took hold of my teeming skull with both hands, and glared fiercely at the blank sheet of paper in my typewriter. With a look almost of awe the wife of the great author tip-toed out again.
About an hour after, having duly been delivered of my great thoughts, I rejoined her. “What is it?” I asked kindly.
“Oh, darleen, I have letter from my muzzaire. She want us have dinner on Sunday. What must I say?”
“Say yes, of course. The old lady wants to give us her consent and her blessing. Incidentally, a handsome dot for you. Shouldn’t wonder if she’d taken a shine to me after all.”
“Any one take shine to such lovely sing like you, darleen; but I don’t know about my muzzaire. Well, I write and tell her we come. Oh, and anuzzer sing, I have seen Rougette this morning. She look so happy. She have come out of the hôpital, and she tell me she get married with Monsieur Lorrimer, July. You nevaire knew she have been burn. It is all down her neck and shoulder. You cannot see.”
“I’m so glad. They say beauty is only skin-deep, but it’s deep enough to change the destiny of nations. Who would not rather be born beautiful than good? Why was I not born beautiful?”
“You are, darleen. You are just beautiful, and what is better, you are great writer.”
(I’m afraid Anastasia sees me with the eyes of posterity.)
“Well, now,” I went on, “I must try and bring off that triangular marriage scheme of mine. We’ll fix it all up with my belle-mère on Sunday, and in the meantime I’ll go out and see the others.”