“You got my letter?” “I did. In fact, there was some considerable beano about it at home. But never mind about that.” “You didn’t come to see me, so I was drawn here. Magnet and tin-tack.” He looked at her little white nose. “I see the point,” he said. “Say some more,” she said, “I like to hear you talk, Funnyface. Funny old ears. Funny old cocoanut with, oh, such a lot of milk in it. You do think a lot of thinky thoughts, don’t you. And you put them all down in those dear little books of yours.” “Not all,” said Luke, “I’m limited in my subjects. Jam, you know. Pickles. Sardines. That hurts—to be limited. I want to be free. Here, I am imprisoned. I am buried alive. Plunged, still teething, in the brougham.” “Still teething? I knew you were young at heart. Still, at the age of thirty-two——” “I had intended to say that I was plunged, still breathing, in the tomb. I do get carried away so. Sometimes I form plans. I think I will leave this business and write my biography. It would be a record, not of the facts that are, but of the facts as I should like them to be.” “Brilliant,” said Jona. “I don’t know,” said Luke, wagging his ears, “I sometimes doubt whether I am sufficiently in touch with real life. I must consult somebody about it.” “Consult me. No, not now. Show me the first of the little books that you ever wrote.” He handed her the little lilac-bound copy of “The Romance of a Raspberry.” She put it reverently to her lips, patted it gently, and laid it down again. “Do you talk it over with Mabel? Isn’t Mabel tremendously proud of it?” “She is tremendously proud, but she has great self-restraint.” He recalled the end of the perfect day. “As a general rule,” he added, “when nothing happens to irritate her.” “Does she love you very much?” “I don’t remember her mentioning anything of the kind recently. But it’s you I want to talk about, Jona. Tell me about your life.” “I don’t live. I’m marking time. You throw a brick into the stream——”
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