At this, night after night, sometimes far into the morning, Rutherford Maxwell would sit and write stories.
Rutherford Maxwell was an Englishman, and the younger son of an Englishman; and his lot was the lot of the younger sons all the world over.
Long after he had gone to bed, Rutherford would hear footsteps passing his door and the sound of voices in the passage.
June came, and July, making an oven of New York, bringing close, scorching days and nights when the pen seemed made of lead; and still Rutherford worked on, sipping ice-water, in his shirt-sleeves, and filling the sheets of paper slowly, but with a dogged persistence which the weather could not kill.
'I'm afraid I haven't,' said Rutherford, apologetically.
The intellectual pressure of the conversation was beginning to be a little too much for Rutherford. Combined with the heat of the night it made his head swim.
Rutherford clutched a chair with one hand, and his forehead with the other.
Rutherford looked at the girl in the doorway with interest.
At the door she paused, and inspected Rutherford with a grave stare.
Rutherford sat down and dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief, feeling a little weak.
She no longer wore the picture-hat, and Rutherford, looking at her, came to the conclusion that the change was an improvement.