"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.