'She can telegraph, she says, but she can't write!'
'An expensive talent,' thought the practical Minks.
'Oh, she's very rich, apparently. But isn't it odd? You see, she
thought it vividly, played it, lived it. Why, she tells me she even
had a Cave in her mountains where lost thoughts and lost starlight
collected, and that she made a kind of Pattern with them to represent
the Net. She showed me a drawing of it, for though she can't write,
she paints quite well. But the odd thing is that she claims to have
thought out the main idea of my own story years and years ago with the
feeling that some day her idea was bound to reach some one who
_would_ write it---'
'Almost a case of transference,' put in Minks.
'A fairy tale, yes, isn't it!'
'Married?' asked Rogers, with a gulp, as they reached the door. But
apparently he had not said it out loud, for there was no reply.
He tried again less abruptly. It required almost a physical effort to
drive his tongue and frame the tremendous question.
'What a fairy story for her children! How _they_ must love it!' This
time he spoke so loud that Minks started and looked up at him.
'Ah, but she has no children,' his cousin said.
They went upstairs, and the introductions to Monsieur and Madame
Michaud began, with talk about rooms and luggage.
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