She seems fond of telegraphing,
rather.' And he laughed as though he were speaking of an ordinary
acquaintance.
'Charming little lady!' The phrase was like the flick of a lash.
Rogers had known it applied to such commonplace women.
'A most intelligent face,' he heard Minks saying, 'quite beautiful,
_I_ thought--the beauty of mind and soul.'
'... Mother and the children took to her at once,' his cousin's voice
went on. 'She and her maid have got rooms over at the Beguins. And, do
you know, a most singular coincidence,' he added with some excitement,
'she tells me that ever since childhood she's had an idea like this--
like the story, I mean--an idea of her own she always wanted to write
but couldn't-----'
'Of course, of course,' interrupted Rogers impatiently; and then he
added quickly, 'but how _very_ extraordinary!'
'The idea that Thought makes a network everywhere about the world in
which we all are caught, and that it's a positive duty, therefore, to
think beauty--as much a duty as washing one's face and hands, because
what you think _touches_ others all day long, and all night long too--
in sleep.'
'Only she couldn't write it?' asked Rogers. His tongue was like a
thick wedge of unmanageable wood in his mouth. He felt like a man who
hears another spoil an old, old beautiful story that he knows himself
with intimate accuracy.
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