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 she had watched him always with interest; and that she believed in him still.

"Well, what have you been doing?" she asked, as soon as they were paired off in their promenade.

"I've been making plans."

"Have you? What sort?"

"Why—I feel that I've been drifting. I've been trying to take a course again, and sail it."

She said feelingly: "Oh, I'm so glad! What have you decided to do?"

She surprised him by the warmth of her curiosity, questioning him with an eagerness that had an air of triumph, as if she had tried to awaken his ambition and was flattered by her success. He guessed that she too had been planning for him; and he said: "I haven't found out. Tell me—can't you suggest something?"

"Oh, a thousand things!" She laughed. "For instance, here you are, behind the scenes, watching the machinery of a play—with a college education and lots of imagination, I know. Why don't you begin to write plays?"

"Like Peter Polk?" he joked.

She winced. "Please—please"

"I beg your pardon. . . . Do you really mean it?"

"Most certainly. Why not? You could act, if you would let yourself—but if you don't want to come out and 'read' lines yourself, you certainly can't object to writing them for others. And I'm sure you could do it."

He trussed himself up with his cane, holding it across his back in the crooks of his elbows, and frowning out