It was pleasant, drinking tea like this, with John Bradford there, opposite, having his second cup. A pleasant way to drink tea--with a John! Miss Theodosia hugged herself happily. Even the forgotten little nightgown on the floor failed to diminish her content. She had not forgotten Elly Precious; she was merely making the most of the ameliorations the gods offered. The kind gods. But conscience had to put in its pious oar. "I'm having a beautiful time; I don't know whether you are or not. But I'm going to send you back to that love story. I hope the Recording Angel will give me a white mark for it, or cross out a black one. The goodness of me! I've been sitting here trying to strangle my conscience, but you see it isn't my own--it's my grandmother's conscience; you have to respect your grandmother's conscience. You'll have to go." "I can work on it here," he pleaded, but she shook her head mournfully. "I haven't the materials. It takes special paper, doesn't it, and pens?" "I could--er--think up my plot." "With me talking a blue streak? I should talk a blue streak; that's my grandmother's, too. No, you must go. How will you ever get it done, if you don't?" "I sha'n't if I do. Staying here is doing me good. I need to 'get up more strength.'" She laughed, but remembered her grandmother. "No more tea," she said kindly. "Conscience! But I'll tell you--you may come back after you've worked." "To-day?" "To-morrow." And for many to-morrows he came back. On one of them the talk once more reverted to the book that the Story Man was understood to be writing, in some mysterious Place of Pens and Paper. "I hope it's a regular romance," Miss Theodosia said. "Romance? What is that? Is there such a thing? There may have been once--" Miss Theodosia's fair cheeks took on faint color. She turned upon him. "Once nothing! I can't help it if that is slang; the occasion demands slang. Are you trying to tell me romance is dead?" He nodded. "Sterilized--Pasteurized--boiled out of us. I suppose," he sighed, "we are more hygienic, but we have faded in the process. It dulls romance to Pasteurize it." She held up a staying hand. "Please!" she said, "in words of one syllable and maybe you can convince me. But you can't. Do you mean to say there are no sweet, blushing girls left, with--with dreams?" Again his sigh. It pained him to disillusion her.