“Why, I told you I was. Any objections?” He did not pay much attention to her, and he asked his question jokingly, as he went on making his preparations.
“It's hard for me to realize that people can care for such things. I thought perhaps you'd begin with something else,” she suggested, hanging up her sack and hat in the closet.
“No, that's the very thing to begin with,” he answered, carelessly. “What are you going to do? Want that book to read that I bought on the cars?”
“No, I'm going down to sit with Mrs. Nash while you're writing.”
“Well, that's a good idea.”
“You can call me when you've done.”
“Done!” cried Bartley. “I sha'n't be done till this time to-morrow. I'm going to make a lot about it.”
“Oh!” said his wife. “Well, I suppose the more there is, the more you will get for it. Shall you put in about those people coming to see the camp?”
“Yes, I think I can work that in so that old Witherby will like it. Something about a distinguished Boston newspaper proprietor and his refined and elegant ladies, as a sort of contrast to the rude life of the loggers.”
“I thought you didn't admire them a great deal.”