"You don't mean—I can write?"
He was amused.
"People do, you know. In fact, most people do—or try. You'd realize that if you were a magazine editor. Have you never written before?"
"Well—reader advertisements and letters, of course. I haven't thought of really writing, not since I was a school girl." She was dazzled.
"Advertisement! That accounts for it. You cramp your style here and there. But you can write. You have an original viewpoint; you write with a sense of direction, and you pack in human interest—human interest's always good. And you know the values of words."
"When you're paying three dollars and eighty cents an inch for space you do think about them!" she laughed. His words revealed the unmeasured stretches of her ignorance in this new field, but the blood throbbed in her temples. Her mind became a whirl of ideas; she saw the world as a gold mine, crammed with things to write about. Eagerly attentive, she listened to Mr. Hayden's criticisms of the manuscript.
Her lead was too long. "You spar around before you get to the point. The story really begins here." His pencil hovered over the page. "If you don't object to our making changes?"
"Oh, please do I want to learn."
An hour went by, and another. Mr. Hayden was interested in her opinions on all subjects; he led her to talk of land selling, of advertising, of the many parts of California that she knew. He suggested a series of articles similar to the one he held in his hand. He would be glad to consider them if she would write them. If she had other ideas, would she submit them?
She left the office with a check in her purse, and her mind was filled with rainbow visions. She saw a story in every newsboy she met, ideas clothed with romance and color jostled each other for place in her mind, and the world seemed a whirling ball beneath her feet. For the first time since the interview with MacAdams she longed to rush to Paul, to share with him her glittering visions.