They were frankly glad to have him there; at least Mrs.
Stevens and Jack were.

As for Mona, he was not so sure, but he hoped she didn't mind.
This was the reason inspired by his great desire: he was going to write a story, and Mona was unconsciously to furnish the material for his heroine, and so, of course, he needed to be there so that he might study his subject.

That sounded very well, to himself, but to Hank Graves, for some reason, it seemed very funny.

When Thurston told him, Hank was taken with a fit of strangling that turned his face a dark purple.
Afterward he explained brokenly that something had got down his Sunday throat--and Thurston, who had never heard of a man's Sunday throat, eyed him with suspicion.

Hank blinked at him with tears still in his quizzical eyes and slapped him on the back, after the way of the West--and any other enlightened country where men are not too dignified to be their real selves--and drawled, in a way peculiar to himself: "That's all right, Bud.