"If ever I have to interview you, I shall say that under a mask of apparent incoherency and irrelevance, Miss Hilary conceals a profound knowledge of human nature and a gift of divination which explores the most unconscious opinions and motives of her interlocutor. How would you like that?" "Pretty well, because I think it's true. But I shouldn't like to be interviewed." "Well, you're safe from me. My interviewing days are over. I believe if I keep on getting better at the rate I've been going the last week, I shall be able to write a play this summer, besides doing my work for the _Abstract_. If I could do that, and it succeeded, the riddle would be read for me." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I should have a handsome income, and could give up newspaper work altogether." "Could you? How glorious!" said Louise, with the sort of maternal sympathy she permitted herself to feel for the sick youth. "How much would you get for your play?" "If it was only reasonably successful, it would be worth five or six thousand dollars a year." "And is that a handsome income?" she asked, with mounting earnestness. He pulled himself up in the hammock to get her face fully in view, and asked, "How much do you think I've been able to average up to this time?" "I don't know. I'm afraid I don't know at all about such things. But I should _like_ to." Maxwell let himself drop back into the hammock. "I think I won't humiliate myself by giving the figures. I'd better leave it to your imagination. You'll be sure to make it enough." "Why should you be ashamed of it, if it's ever so little?" she asked. "But _I_ know. It's your pride. It's like Sue Northwick wanting to give up all her property because her father wrote that letter, and said he had used the company's money. And Matt says it isn't his property at all, and the company has no right to it. If she gives it up, she and her sister will have nothing to live on. And they _won't_ let themselves be helped--any more than--than--_you_ will!" "No. We began with that; people who need help can't let you help them. Don't they know where their father is?" "No. But of course they must, now, before long." Maxwell said, after the silence that followed upon this. "I should like to have a peep into that man's soul." "Horrors! Why should you?" asked Louise. "It would be such splendid material. If he is fond of his children--" "He and Sue dote upon each other. I don't see how she can endure him; he always made me feel creepy." "Then he must have written that letter to conciliate public feeling, and to make his children easier about him and his future. And now if you could see him when he realizes that he's only brought more shame on them, and forced them to beggar themselves--it would be a tremendous situation." "But I shouldn't _like_ to see him at such a time. It seems to me, that's worse than interviewing, Mr. Maxwell."