“I’ll let him be. I’ll put him in a play. He’s good copy.”
“He’ll never know himself, so it won’t matter.”
They talked late about Jarvis’s work, his methods of writing, the length of time it took him to conceive and work out a play. It all fascinated Bambi. She felt that a wonderful interest had come into her life. A new thing was to be created, each day, under her roof, near her. She was to have part in it, help in its shaping to perfection. She gloated over the days to come, and a warm rush of gratitude to Jarvis for bringing her this sense of his need of her made her burst out:
“Oh, life is such fun!”
He looked at her closely.
“You are a queer little mite,” said he.
“The mite is mightier than the sword,” she laughed, starting for the garden. “You go to bed, so you can get an early start on that play. I’ll round up the Professor. He’s forgotten to bring himself in.”
He obeyed without objection. He felt, all at once, like a ship at anchor after long years of floating aimlessly, but, manlike, he took his good fortune as his just right, and it never occurred to him to thank Bambi for his new sense of peace and well-being.
