"That is just what I've been wondering," said Barry. "Of course the ordinary office work, the work of the _Bridge_, will go on all right without him for a bit. I mean--well, you see I can look after things pretty well, and we have an excellent secretary in Miss Loder." "But his own work? He is writing a book--a novel, isn't he? He said something about it--though he hasn't read any of it to me," added Toni rather wistfully. "I don't suppose he's got very far," said Barry, wondering whether she felt slighted by the omission. "Owen is a quick worker, I know, but he has only been at it for a week or two." "Oh, I know," she replied hastily. "But how will he go on with it? He can't write with his left hand, can he?" "Not very well." An idea struck Barry, and without stopping to think he gave it utterance. "Look here, Mrs. Rose, you can help Owen no end! You must take it down for him. You could easily scribble it off and then type it out afterwards, couldn't you?" Into Toni's eyes flashed a light of pure joy. "Oh, do you think I could! I'd do anything--anything to help Owen," she said eagerly. "It wouldn't be like his articles, full of quotations and things that want verifying, would it? I mean even a stupid girl--like me--could do it, couldn't she?" "You're not stupid," he rallied her gaily. "Look how quickly you learned to read proof! And even the superior Miss Loder doesn't type as well as you!" "Doesn't she!" Toni's depression had vanished like magic, and her eyes were sparkling as she looked at him. "Oh, if I could! But I don't believe I dare offer, Mr. Raymond! Do you think if _you_ were to mention it to Owen----" "Oh, it would come much better from you!" Barry, whose interference on the subject of Owen's marriage had not been too well received, shrank from further officiousness. "If you propose it, I'm sure Owen will jump at it; and he won't mind his enforced helplessness half so much if he can get on with the book." For a moment Toni said nothing. The rain had ceased, and in the darkened sky one or two pale-gold stars were gleaming. The air was full of sweet, moist scents; and a big white owl flew by the window, looking weird and ghostly in the dusk. A moment later they heard him hoot from his eyrie in one of the tall tree-tops, and Toni shivered a little. "I can't get used to their queer cries," she said in a low voice. "Sometimes I hear them in the night, and they make me shudder. Owen laughs at me, and quotes Shakespeare, about the owl and the baker's daughter, but I hate them, all the same." "I rather like them," said Barry lightly. "Anyway, you mustn't drive them away; it's the very worst of luck to turn them out of their accustomed dwelling-places!" "Then, they'll have to stop, I suppose," said Toni practically. "But I shall go on hating them all the same!"