ed Norah's baleful eye as I answered their questions and
performed the final adieux.

As the door closed, Norah and I faced each other, glaring.

"Hussies!" hissed Norah. Whereupon it struck us funny and we fell, a
shrieking heap, into the nearest chair. Finally Sis dabbed at her eyes
with her handkerchief, drew a long breath, and asked, with elaborate
sarcasm, why I hadn't made it a play instead of a book, while I was
about it.

"But I mean it," I declared. "I've had enough of loafing. Max must
unpack my typewriter to-night. I'm homesick for a look at the keys. And
to-morrow I'm to be installed in the cubbyhole off the dining-room and I
defy any one to enter it on peril of their lives. If you value the lives
of your offspring, warn them away from that door. Von Gerhard said that
there was writing in my system, and by the Great Horn Spoon and the
Beard of the Prophet, I'll have it out! Besides, I need the money. Norah
dear, how does one set about writing a book? It seems like such a large
order."

CHAPTER IV. DAWN DEVELOPS A HEIMWEH

It's hard trying to develop into a real Writer Lady in the bosom of
one's family, especially when the family refuses to take one seriously.
Seven years of newspaper grind have taught me the fallacy of trying to
write by the inspiration method. But there is such a thing as a train of
thought, and mine is constantly being derailed, and wrecked and pitched
about.

Scarcely am I settled in my cubby-hole, typewriter before me, the
working plan of a story buzzing about in my brain, when I hear my name
called in muffled tones, as though the speaker were laboring with a
mouthful of hairpins. I pay no attention. I have just given my heroine
a pair of calm gray eyes, shaded with black lashes and hair to match. A
voice floats down from the upstairs regions.

"Dawn! Oh, Dawn! Just run and rescue the cucumbers out of the top of the
ice-box, will you? The iceman's coming, and he'll squash 'em."

A parting jab at my heroine's hair and eyes, and I'm off to save the
cucumbers.

Back at my typewriter once more. Shall I make my heroine petite
or grande? I decide that stateliness and Gibsonesque height should
accompany the calm gray eyes. I rattle away happily, the plot unfolding
itself in some mysterious way. Sis opens the door a little and peers in.
She is dressed for the street.

"Dawn dear, I'm going to the dressmaker's. Frieda's upstairs cleaning
the bathroom, so take a little squint at