Yes, I'll have another cup, if you please, Mrs. Hollister."
Lawanne munched cake and drank tea and talked as if he had been denied
the boon of conversation for a long time. But that could hardly be,
for he had been across the continent since he left there. He had been
in New York and Washington and swung back to British Columbia by way
of San Francisco.
"I read those two books of yours--or rather Bob read them to me,"
Doris said presently. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for writing
such a preposterous yarn as 'The Worm'."
"Ah, my dear woman," Lawanne's face lit up with a sardonic smile. "I
wish my publishers could hear you say that. 'The Worm' is good, sound,
trade union goods, turned out in the very best manner of a thriving
school of fictionsmiths. It sold thirty thousand copies in the regular
edition and tons in the reprint."
"But there never were such invincible men and such a perfect creature
of a woman," Doris persisted. "And the things they did--the strings
you pulled. Life isn't like that. You know it isn't."
"Granted," Lawanne returned dryly.
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