"Then we are right?" asked Ricky.
Rupert's eyebrows slid upward. "You seemed too sure to be in doubt," he
commented.
"Well, I was sure at times. But then no one can ever be really sure of
anything about you," she admitted frankly.
"But why--" protested Charity.
"Why didn't I spread the glad tidings that I was turning out the great
American novel?" he asked. "I don't know. Perhaps I am a violet--no?" He
looked pained at Ricky's snort of dissent. "Or perhaps I just don't like
to talk about things which may never come true. When I didn't hear from
Lever, I thought that my worst forebodings were realized and that my
scribbling was worthless. But you know," he paused to fill his pipe,
"writing is more or less like the drug habit. I've told stories all my
life, and I found myself tied to my typewriter in spite of my
disappointment. As for talking about it--well, how much has Val ever
said about these?" He ruffled the pages of the note-book provokingly.
"Nothing. And you would never have seen those if I could have prevented
it," his brother replied. "Those are for my private satisfaction only."
"Two geniuses in one family." Ricky rolled her eyes heavenward. "This is
almost too, too much!"
"Jeems," Val ordered, "you're the nearest. Can't you make her shut up?"
"Just let him try," said his sister sweetly. The swamper grinned but
made no move to stir from his chair.
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