Dear Byron, I'm just talking it over with you. I want to help you. What is her attitude?
Why, she loves the man!
Of course, but you've got to make readers believe that, believe, moreover that she's willing to brave race-prejudice and conventions that have risen from it. There's her family, for instance. . . .
God! he shouted. I don't get anything but discouragement out of you! At the same time he made a mental note that he must put the girl's father in the story.
Byron, she pleaded, please don't quarrel with me again. I can't bear it.
He was drawing on his overcoat and she grasped the sleeve in a pitiful gesture of appeal.
It seems, she went on sadly, that all we do lately is quarrel.
So it seems. He set his face hard.
Byron, I love you so much. I only want to help you. Won't you let me?
I don't want any of your help.
Byron!
You're ashamed of me because I'm not getting on as well as Howard!
Byron, please!
And you think Rudolph Fisher's a great writer because he's published a rotten story or two in the Atlantic!
She was silent.
