may laugh. Come, we will change the subject to something
more cheerful, yes? Tell me, how grows the book?"

"By inches. After working all day on a bulletin
paper whose city editor is constantly shouting: `Boil it
now, fellows! Keep it down! We're crowded!' it is too
much of a wrench to find myself seated calmly before my
own typewriter at night, privileged to write one hundred
thousand words if I choose. I can't get over the habit of
crowding the story all into the first paragraph. Whenever
I flower into a descriptive passage I glance nervously
over my shoulder, expecting to find Norberg stationed
behind me, scissors and blue pencil in hand.
Consequently the book, thus far, sounds very much like a
police reporter's story of a fire four minutes before the
paper is due to go to press."

Von Gerhard's face was unsmiling. "So," he said,
slowly. "You burn the candle at both ends. All day you
write, is it not so? And at night you come home to write
still more? Ach, Kindchen!--Na, we shall change all
that. We will be better comrades, we two, yes? You
remember that gay little walk of last autumn, when we
explored the Michigan country lane at dusk? I shall be
your Sunday Schatz, and there shall be more rambles like
that one, to bring the roses into your cheeks. We shall
be good Kameraden, as you and this little Griffith are--
what is it they say--good fellows? That is it--good
fellows, yes? So, shall we shake hands on it? "