"Forty years, Molly—forty years."
When they came back to the world she said: "John, I am up here looking for a publisher. Father has written a Biography of Watts, and collected all of his poems and things in it, and we thought it might sell—Watts is so well known. But the publishers won't take it. I want your advice about it."
Barclay listened to her story, and then wheeled in his chair and exclaimed, "Can Adrian publish that book?"
"Yes," she answered tentatively; "that is, he could if it didn't take such an awful lot of money."
After discussing details with her, Barclay called Neal Ward and said:—
"Get up a letter to Adrian Brownwell asking him to print for me three thousand copies of the colonel's book, at one dollar and fifty cents a copy, and give seventy-five per cent of the profits to Colonel Culpepper. We'll put that book in every public library in this country. How's that?" And he looked at the tintype and said, "Bless her dear little heart."
"Neal," asked Barclay, as Mrs. Brownwell left the room, "how old are you? I keep forgetting." When the young man answered twenty-five, Barclay, who was putting away the tintype picture, said, "And Jeanette will be twenty-three at her next birthday." He closed the desk and looked at the youth bending over his typewriter and sighed. "Been going together off and on five or six years—I should say."
Neal nodded. Barclay put his hand on his chin and contemplated the young man a moment. "Ever have any other love affair, son?"
The youngster coloured and looked up quickly with a puzzled look and did not reply.
Barclay cut in with, "Well, son, I'm glad to find you don't lie easily." He laughed silently. "Jennie has—lots of them. When she was six she used to cry for little Watts Fernald, and they quarrelled like cats and dogs, and when she was ten there was an Irish boy—Finnegan I think his name was—who milked the cow, whom she adored, and when she was fourteen or so, it was some boy in the high school who gave her candy until her mother had to shoo him off, and I don't know how many others." He paused for a few seconds and then went on, "But she's forgotten them—that's the way of women." His eyes danced merrily as he continued, while he scratched his head: "But with us men—it's different. We never forget." He chuckled a moment, and then his face changed as he said, "Neal, I wish you'd go into the mail room and see if the noon mail has anything in it from that damn scoundrel who's trying to start a cracker factory in St. Louis—I hate to bother to smash him right now when we're so busy."