"Or dirty?"
"No, it isn't dirty. I know it isn't dirty," Henry said very emphatically.
Mr. Quinn did not answer for a while. He got up from his seat and walked to the end of the terrace where he busied himself for a few moments in tending to a rosebush. Then he returned to the seat where Henry had remained, and said, "Will you let me read it, Henry?"
"Why, yes, father. Of coarse, I will," Henry answered, rising and moving towards the house. "I'd like you to read it," he added. "Perhaps you'll tell me what you think of it?"
"I will," Mr. Quinn replied, closing his lips down tightly.
"I'll just go and get it," Henry said, and he went into the house.
Mr. Quinn remained seated on the terrace, looking rigidly in front of him, until Henry returned, carrying a pile of manuscript. He took the paper from him without speaking, and glanced at the first sheet on which Henry had written in a large, clear hand:
DRUSILLA: A NOVEL
BY
HENRY QUINN.
and then he turned the page and read what was written on the second sheet:
TO
MY FATHER