I'd want to be a man, not that preachers aren't men, Peggy, dear--but I'd want to do things, like blowing up mountains for instance, or finding buried cities, or"-- she whispered, very, very softly under her breath--"writing books, John Aldous!" Only Aldous heard those last words, and Joanne gave a sharp little cry; and when Peggy asked her what the matter was Joanne did not tell her that John Aldous had almost broken her hand on the opposite side--for Joanne was riding between the two.
"It's lame for life," she said to him half an hour later, when he was bidding her good-bye, preparatory to accompanying Blackton down to the working steel.

"And I deserve it for trying to be kind to you.

I think some writers of books are--are perfectly intolerable!" "Won't you take a little walk with me right after dinner ?" he was asking for the twentieth time.
"I doubt it very, very much." "Please, Ladygray!" "I may possibly think about it." With that she left him, and she did not look back as she and Peggy Blackton went into the house.

But as they drove away they saw two faces at the window that overlooked the townward road, and two hands were waving good-bye.

Both could not be Peggy Blackton's hands.
"Joanne and I are going for a walk this afternoon, Blackton," said Aldous, "and I just want to tell you not to worry if we're not back by four o'clock.