One of his woes was that he had
not been long enough married to his wife to teach her much French.
"I wish," interpolated Sylvia to me, "that we had kept on in English. It
would have been much more satisfactory. I expect one of the other
sisters will be here before very long, and before she comes I wish you
would tell me how you are getting on with your book. I have been
thinking about it, ever and ever so much."
"I am not getting on at all," said I; "without you there will be no
book."
At this Sylvia knit her brows a little, and looked disturbed.
"That is not a good way to talk about it," she said, "unless, indeed,
the book could be made a part of the brotherhood work, in some way. The
publisher might want a typewritten copy, and if I should make it, I
should know the end of the story of Tomaso and Lucilla. You know I had
almost given up ever knowing what finally happened to those two."
"You shall know it," said I; "we shall work together yet. I can think of
a dozen ways in which we can do it, and I intend to prove that my
brotherhood idea is thoroughly practicable."
"Of course it is," said Sylvia; "isn't this practical?" and she bedewed
the patient's brow so liberally, that some of the perfume ran into his
eyes, and made him wink vigorously.
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