He laughed, and instinctively his eyes sought those of the girl who waited on the table. Somehow he felt that she was the only one who could understand.
She came back at him with a question: "What have you done?"
"I have written a book," he told her.
She shook her head, and there were little sparks of light in her eyes. "I don't believe that was what your grandfather meant," she said, slowly.
They stared at her—three of the brothers with their knives and forks uplifted, the fourth, a blond Titanic youngster, with his elbows on the table, his face turned up to her, as to the sun.
"I don't believe he meant something done with your brains, but something fine, heroic—" There was a hint of scorn in her voice.
Van Alen flushed. He was fresh from the adulation of his bookish world.
"I should not have come," he explained, uncomfortably, "if my mother had not desired that I preserve the tradition of the family."
"It is a great thing to write a book"—she was leaning forward, aflame with interest—"but I don't believe he meant just that—"
He laughed. "Then I am not to sleep in the canopy bed?"