For something like twenty years she had nursed an
ambition that wavered between the desire to become an actress or an
authoress. At present she despised literature. More than once she had
confessed to Mr. Rushcroft that she hated like poison to write out the
bill-o'-fare, a duty devolving solely upon her, it appears, because of
a local tradition that she possessed literary talent. Every one said
that she wrote the best hand in the county.
Mr. Rushcroft's conception of a bite or two may have staggered Barnes
but it did not bewilder Miss Tilly. He had four eggs with his ham, and
other things in proportion. He talked a great deal, proving in that
way that it was a supper well worth speaking for. Among other things,
he dilated at great length upon his reasons for not being a member of
The Players or The Lambs in New York City. It seems that he had
promised his dear, devoted wife that he would never join a club of any
description. Dear old girl, he would as soon have cut off his right
hand as to break any promise made to her. He brushed something away
from his eyes, and his chin, contracting, trembled slightly.
"Quite right," said Barnes, sympathetically. "And how long has Mrs.
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