Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. “I wrote it for you. Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart. I’m sorry. Be off!" "Jack!" exclaimed his unhappy parent. I am no exception.
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