“But you are not a lame old man!” she cries in indignation. “You are the youngest and strongest and cleverest man in the world!”
“What am I to do with these miraculous gifts?” I ask, laughing.
“You are to become famous,” she says, with conviction.
“Very well, my dear. We will have to go to some new land where attaining fame is easier for a beginner than in London; and we’ll send for Antoinette and Stenson to help us.”
“That will be very nice,” she observes.
So I am to become famous. Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut. And Carlotta has got a soul of her own now and means to make the most of it. It will lead me upward somewhere. But whether I am to be king of New Babylon or Prime Minister of New Zealand or lawgiver to a Polynesian tribe is a secret as yet hidden in the lap of the gods, whence Carlotta doubtless will snatch it in her own good time.
“You are writing a lot of rubbish,” says Carlotta.
“And a little truth. The mixture is Life,” I answer.