“Oh, the book—it is too uncertain. Perhaps it will go, but perhaps it won’t. And then—what? It will be months before the book is properly polished off. And then I may peddle it around for more months. No; I can’t afford to trifle with uncertainties. Every newspaper man or woman writes a book. It’s like having the measles. There is not a newspaper man living who does not believe, in his heart, that if he could only take a month or two away from the telegraph desk or the police run, he could write the book of the year, not to speak of the great American Play. Why, just look at me! I’ve only been writing seriously for a few weeks, and already the best magazines in the country are refusing my manuscripts daily.” “Don’t joke,” said Norah, coming over to me, “I can’t stand it.” “Why not? Much better than weeping, isn’t it? And anyway, I’m no subject for tears any more. Dr. von Gerhard will tell you how well and strong I am. Won’t you, Herr Doktor?” “Well,” said Von Gerhard, in his careful, deliberate English, “since you ask me, I should say that you might last about one year, in New York.” “There! What did I tell you!” cried Norah. “What utter blither!” I scoffed, turning to glare at Von Gerhard. “Gently,” warned Max. “Such disrespect to the man who pulled you back from the edge of the yawning grave only six months ago!” “Yawning fiddlesticks!” snapped I, elegantly. “There was nothing wrong with me except that I wanted to be fussed over. And I have been. And I’ve loved it. But it must stop now.” I rose and walked over to the table and faced Von Gerhard, sitting there in the depths of a great chair. “You do not seem to realize that I am not free to come and go, and work and play, and laugh and live like other women. There is my living to make. And there is—Peter Orme. Do you think that I could stay on here like this? Oh, I know that Max is not a poor man. But he is not a rich man, either. And there are the children to be educated, and besides, Max married Norah O’Hara, not the whole O’Hara tribe. I want to go to work. I am not a free woman, but when I am working, I forget, and am almost happy. I tell you I must be well again! I will be well! I am well!” At the end of which dramatic period I spoiled the whole effect by bowing my head on the table and giving way to a fit of weeping such as I had not had since the days of my illness. “Looks like it,” said Max, at which I decided to laugh, and the situation was saved.