Grandmother nodded and grinned, subsiding into her tart, which she ate with a spoon, making little guttural noises of enjoyment.
"Just the same," said Renny, carrying on the conversation, "I don't altogether like it. None of us have ever done anything like that."
"You seemed to think it was all right for me to write poetry when I only had it published in the varsity magazine. Now when I've got a publisher to bring it out—"
Grandmother was aroused. "Bring it out! Will he bring it to-day? If he does, I shall wear my white cap with mauve—"
"Mamma, have some more tart," interrupted Nicholas. "Just a little more tart."
Old Mrs. Whiteoak's attention was easily diverted by an appeal to her palate. She eagerly held out her plate, tilting the juice from it to the cloth, where it formed a pinkish puddle.
Eden, after sulkily waiting for her to be helped to some tart, went on, a frown indenting his forehead: "You simply have no idea, Renny, how difficult it is to get a book of poems published. And by a New York house too! I wish you could hear my friends talk about it. They'd give a good deal to have accomplished what I have at my age."
"It would have been more to the point," returned Renny, testily, "to have passed your exams. When I think of the money that's been wasted on your education—"
"Wasted! Could I have done this if I hadn't had my education?"
"You've always been scribbling verses. The question is, can you make a living by it?"
"Give me time! Good Lord, my book isn't in the printer's hands yet. I can't tell what it may lead to.
