Elice Gleason returned the smile, but quietly. She made no further comment, however, and the subject dropped.
In the hammock Armstrong swung back and forth in lazy well-being. Overhead the mother wren, a mere brown shadow, flitted in return over their heads. There was an instant’s clamor from hidden fledglings, and silence as the shadow passed back once more into the sunshine. Watching 78 through half-closed eyes, comfortably whimsical, Armstrong gazed into space where the shadow had vanished.
“What a responsibility the care of a family must be,” he commented, “particularly in this hot weather. That wren certainly has my sympathy—and respect.” He paused to give the swinging hammock a fresh impulse. “I wonder though,” he drifted on, “that is, if it is permissible to tangle up a variety of thoughts, if it’s any harder than it is to attempt to pull an idea out of one’s self by the roots and work it up into readable form with the thermometer above ninety in the shade—I wonder.”
Elice Gleason was observing him now, peculiarly, understandingly.
“How is the book coming, anyway, Steve?” she asked directly.
“Which book?” smilingly.
“The book, of course.”
“They’re all the books—or were at one time.” A trace, the first, of irony crept into his voice. “To be specific, however, masterpiece number one has just completed its eighteenth round trip East, and is taking a deserved rest. Masterpiece number two is en route somewhere between here and New York, either coming or 79 going, on its eleventh journey. Number three has only five tallies to its credit—but hope springs eternal. Number four, the baby, still adolescent, has temporarily halted in its growth while I succor a needy benedict friend in distress. I believe that covers the family.”
The characterization was typically nonsensical; but, sympathetic, the listener read between the sentences and understood.
“Isn’t the new one coming well?” she asked low. “Tell me, Steve, honest.”