“Oh, how I’d like to see that letter! If the bookstore has an ounce of real bookitude about it, they’ve got it preserved in lavender! And what do you think of ‘March Hares’?”
“Did you ever read any of the works of Harvey Wheelwright?” he questioned in turn.
“Now,” thought Io, “he is going to compare Frederic to Wheelwright, and I shall abandon him to his fate forever. So here’s his chance ... I have,” she replied aloud.
“It’s funny,” ruminated Banneker. “Mr. Wheelwright writes about the kind of things that might happen any day, and probably do happen, and yet you don’t believe a word of it. ‘March Hares’—well, it just couldn’t happen; but what do you care while you’re in it! It seems realer than any of the dull things outside it. That’s the literary part of it, I suppose, isn’t it?”
“That’s the magic of it,” returned Io, with a little, half-suppressed crow of delight. “Are you magic, too, Mr. Banneker?”
“Me? I’m hungry,” said he.
“Forgive the cook!” she cried. “But just one thing more. Will you lend me the poetry book?”
“It’s all marked up,” he objected, flushing.
“Are you afraid that I’ll surprise your inmost secrets?” she taunted. “They’d be safe. I can be close-mouthed, even though I’ve been chattering like a sparrow.”
“Take it, of course,” he said. “I suppose I’ve marked all the wrong things.”