"How wonderful! Do you just sit down and write it straight off?"
I just—only just—pulled myself up in time as I remembered that Sylvia was an enthusiast of twelve whose own efforts had already caused considerable comment in the literary circles described round the High School. I felt this entitled her to some claim on my veracity.
"Sylvia," I cried, "I shall have to make a confession. All those stories you have been good enough to read and occasionally smile over are the result of a cold-blooded mechanical process—and the help of a dictionary of synonyms."
"Oo! How wonderful! Do show me how."
"Very well. Since you are going to be a literary giantess it is well that you should be initiated into the mysteries of producing what I shall call the illusion of spontaneity. Now take this story here. Here on this old envelope is THE IDEA."
"Oo! Let me see. I can't read a word."
"Of course you can't; nobody could. Rough copies are divided into classes as follows:—
"No. 1. Those I can read, but nobody else can.
"No. 2. Those I can't read myself after two days.
"No. 3. Those my typist can read.