“Businesslike, isn’t it?” asked the young author. “I’m afraid system has become a part of my nature, and am always wondering if it will cramp my imagination.” “Why should it? I’m horribly disorderly myself and can’t do a thing. . . . Is—is this a story?” She was standing by the desk and she passed her hand with a lingering touch over a pile of manuscript, much as she had fingered her grandmother’s jewels. “Yes. I finished it last night, and it will start off tomorrow on what may be a long and adventurous journey. But if it were rejected by every editor in the country nothing could take away my pleasure in writing it!” she exclaimed with sudden passion. “I’ll bet it couldn’t.” Gita’s eyes roved over the little room; it seemed to her the most personal room she had ever entered. “Do you write all your stories here?” she asked. “Yes. I don’t believe I could write anywhere else. If I used the word ‘atmosphere’ I suppose you would think I was talking cant.” “No, I shouldn’t.” But her heart sank. And then she sighed. The manor would have to wait. She would not turn Elsie out of this room if Mr. Donald talked his head off, although it would have given her acute pleasure to annoy that disagreeable old woman. “I—I really came today to give a gentle hint to Mrs. Pelham that I intended to sell the house when the lease expired, but you may tell her I’ve changed my mind. You see, it tickles my vanity to think that great books may be written in a house belonging to me.” “Oh!” Elsie Brewster had turned white. “You——Oh, you wouldn’t! It’s an ugly old shell but I love it, and I couldn’t write anywhere else. I’d feel as if my roots had been torn up.” “Needn’t give it another thought,” said Gita briskly. “Cut it out. Don’t you want to come over and see my old tomb?” “I should like it very much. I have always longed to see the inside of that old manor. To tell you the truth I once made it the scene of a story, although I had to make up the inside.” “I am sure it was an improvement on the original. It couldn’t be worse. Do get your hat and come along. I told my old butler not to have luncheon until half-past one. Do you mind walking?” “I’d love a walk. Just a moment.” CHAPTER VIII