shall be at the Riviera Hotel, in Cannes, where Old Stephen is."
"May I write? But I'm afraid you'll find my letters very dull. I see so few people. I suppose," he added, "I ought to have had more to do with people. Only, when a man has nothing whatever to offer, he is apt to retire into his shell. I did, and I should have remained there, if it hadn't been for you. . . ."
"Promise me, then," she said, looking at him seriously, "that you won't slip back into it again the moment my back is turned. I'd like you to see something of Madame Claire, and of Noel. They both like you, you know, and will want to see you. Will you promise me that?"
"I'll do anything you think is good for me," he answered, smiling. Then he too looked serious.
"Miss Pendleton, you don't know what it means to a man to feel himself tied by the lack of money. I suppose another man in my place would have found some way of making it. No doubt I should have chucked writing long ago, or tried to write something more lucrative than a book on religion. But, on the other hand, should I? If I have written something of any value, if the book is well received, I shall feel justified in having spent so many years on it. If it isn't? Well, I don't know.
