"Not at all," I said, hurriedly, "not at all. You
see I'm--I'm writing a book. My entire day is occupied."

"A book!" screeched the three. "How interesting! What
is it? When will it be published?"

I avoided Norah's baleful eye as I answered their
questions and performed the final adieux.

As the door closed, Norah and I faced each other,
glaring.

"Hussies!" hissed Norah. Whereupon it struck us
funny and we fell, a shrieking heap, into the nearest
chair. Finally Sis dabbed at her eyes with her
handkerchief, drew a long breath, and asked, with
elaborate sarcasm, why I hadn't made it a play instead of
a book, while I was about it.

"But I mean it," I declared. "I've had enough of
loafing. Max must unpack my typewriter to-night. I'm
homesick for a look at the keys. And to-morrow I'm to be
installed in the cubbyhole off the dining-room and I defy
any one to enter it on peril of their lives. If you
value the lives of your offspring, warn them away from
that door. Von Gerhard said that there was writing in my
system, and by the Great Horn Spoon and the Beard of the
Prophet, I'll have it out! Besides, I need the money.
Norah dear, how does one set about writing a book? It
seems like such a large order."