She nodded her head emphatically, and a look of comprehension spread over her face. “Suppose,” he continued, “suppose that I should make over the real estate and farms to you--you are an excellent manager. And suppose that I should put the personal estate, including copyrights, into a trust, the income to be paid to you and the children. You would take care of me while I became a primitive, wouldn't you?” “I would,” she answered, “you know I would. But think how uncomfortable it will be for you. While we are living in luxury, you--” “Don't worry about that,” he interrupted with a laugh. “I shall have all the luxury I want: flannel shirts, loose around the neck, instead of these infernal stiff collars; velveteen trousers and jacket instead of this waiter's uniform; and I shall go barefoot when the weather is suitable--do you understand? Barefoot in the summer grass--it will be immense.” “But your food,” she asked, “how will you manage that on a primitive basis?” “You will manage it,” he replied, “you know I have always preferred beefsteak and onions to any French dish. Champagne does not agree with me. I'd rather have a glass of the straight stuff, without any gas in it.” “But your sleeping arrangements,” she murmured, “are you going to leave the house? Our bedroom is not exactly primitive.” “No fear of it,” he answered. “There is a little room beyond your bathroom. Put an iron cot in there, with a soft mattress, linen sheets, and light blankets. I'll do my morning wash at the pump in the yard, for the sake of the picture. When I want a bath you'll leave the door of the room open if you are not actually in the tub.” “Nicholas,” she said, with a Mona Lisa smile, “for an author you have a very clever way of putting things. But suppose we have guests at the house, you can't come to dinner in dirty clothes and with bare feet.” “Certainly not,” he answered. “I shall put on clean flannels, clean velveteens, and sandals.” “Sandals,” she murmured, “sandals for dinner are simply wonderful. Do you think I could--” “Not at all, my dear,” said the Great Author firmly. “Your present style of dress becomes you amazingly. I am the only one who has to do the primitive.” So the arrangements were completed. The interviewers who came to the house described the Great Author in his loose flannels and velveteens, with bare feet, returning from labor in the fields. The moving pictures were full of him. But the sandals did not appear. There were no flash-lights permitted at the part-primitive dinner-table. DIANA AND THE LIONS In the darkest hour before the dawn, Diana floated away from her Garden Tower and came down between the Lions on the Library Steps.