"Because," she said, "he's sent them back."
I stared at her. For one moment I thought that he had done the only
sane thing he could do, that he had made my horrible task
unnecessary.
She explained. "He wants Mamma and me to go over them again and see
if there aren't some things we'd better leave out."
"Oh," I said, "is that all?"
I must have struck her as looking rather queer, for she said, "All?
Why, whatever did you think it was?"
With a desperate courage I dashed into it there where I saw my
opening.
"I thought he'd given it up."
"Given it up?"
Her dismay showed me what I had yet to go through. But I staved it
off a bit. I tried half-measures.
"Well, yes," I said, "you see, he's frightfully driven with his
Lankester book."
"But--we said--we wouldn't have him driven for the world. Papa can
wait. He _has_ waited."