You belong. But
I'm hanged if I want to see strangers come in. I object to
strangers. Why are strangers necessary?"
"For the same reason that you were."
"I?" The Author's eyebrows were almost lost in his hair. "My dear,
deluded child, I knew this house, and you, and Sophy Smith, before
you were born! I knew you," The Author declared unblushingly,
"before _I_ was born! Now, am I a stranger?"
"Then you ought to know why Sophy and I have just got to have
people, the sort of people who are coming." She paused. "_We_
haven't best-seller royalties piled up to the roof!"
"No," said The Author, bitterly, "but I have. That's why I am
forever plagued with strangers. That's why, when I discover a place
and people that suit me to perfection, I can't keep 'em to myself!
Oh, da--drat it all, anyhow!"
"But they aren't coming to see you. They're coming to see Hynds
House," Alicia reminded him soothingly. "Besides, I don't think
they're the sort of folks that care much for authors," she finished,
encouragingly.
"They'll care about _me_" grumbled The Author glumly. "But let 'em
come and be hanged to them! I shall take--"
"Soothing syrup?"
"Long walks!" snarled The Author.
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