"You--you poor child!" he cried. "What are you doing here? How do
you happen to be--"
"I came over to spend the night with Annie Jordan. I--I do that
quite often, Courtney. Aren't--aren't you ever coming to see me
again?"
"I was planning to come over tomorrow, Rosie,--tomorrow sure. I've
been meaning to run over to your house--"
"I--I thought you had forgotten all about us," she broke in,
pathetically. "You wouldn't do that, would you? Didn't you get my
letters? I wrote four or five times and you never answered. You--you
haven't forgotten, have you?"
"Bless your heart, no! I should say not. I've been so busy. Working
like a dog on my book. The one we talked about, Rosie. The story
of my experiences over in France, you know."
"Oh, Courtney, are you really, truly writing it?" she cried eagerly.
"Sure," he replied. "It's a tough job, believe me. I've been so
busy I haven't even had time to write letters. Mother complains
that I never write to her. Dear old mater,--I ought to be kicked
for neglecting her. Stacks of unanswered letters. Really, it's
appalling. But I've just got to finish this work. The publisher
wants it before Christmas."
"You promised to read it to me as you wrote it, Courtney," she
murmured wistfully. "Don't you remember?"
"Just as soon as I've got it in little better shape, Rosie. You
see, it's an awful mess now.
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