One in particular that had
suited me I determined if possible to recover. A subtle instinct
guided me to Veronica's sanctum. I found her thoughtfully sucking
it. She explained to me that she was writing a little play.
"You get things from your father, don't you?" she enquired of me.
"You do," I admitted; "but you ought not to take them without asking.
I am always telling you of it. That pencil is the only one I can
write with."
"I didn't mean the pencil," explained Veronica. "I was wondering if
I had got your literary temper."
It is puzzling, when you come to think of it, this estimate accorded
by the general public to the litterateur. It stands to reason that
the man who writes books, explaining everything and putting everybody
right, must be himself an exceptionally clever man; else how could he
do it! The thing is pure logic. Yet to listen to Robina and her
like you might think we had not sense enough to run ourselves, as the
saying is--let alone running the universe. If I would let her,
Robina would sit and give me information by the hour.
"The ordinary girl . . . " Robina will begin, with the air of a
University Extension Lecturer.
It is so exasperating. As if I did not know all there is to be known
about girls! Why, it is my business. I point this out to Robina.
"Yes, I know," Robina will answer sweetly. "But I was meaning the
real girl."
It would make not the slightest difference were I even quite a high-
class literary man--Robina thinks I am: she is a dear child.
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