"I have written a book," he told her.
She shook her head, and there were little sparks of light in her eyes.
"I don't believe that was what your grandfather meant," she said,
slowly.
They stared at her--three of the brothers with their knives and forks
uplifted, the fourth, a blond Titanic youngster, with his elbows on the
table, his face turned up to her, as to the sun.
"I don't believe he meant something done with your brains, but something
fine, heroic--" There was a hint of scorn in her voice.
Van Alen flushed. He was fresh from the adulation of his bookish world.
"I should not have come," he explained, uncomfortably, "if my mother had
not desired that I preserve the tradition of the family."
"It is a great thing to write a book"--she was leaning forward, aflame
with interest--"but I don't believe he meant just that--"