Burnamy paused in a flow of autobiography, and modestly waited for Miss
Triscoe's prompting. He had not to wait long.
"And then, how soon did you think of printing your things in a book?"
"Oh, about as soon as they began to take with the public."
"How could you tell that they were-taking?"
"They were copied into other papers, and people talked about them."
"And that was what made Mr. Stoller want you to be his secretary?"
"I don't believe it was. The theory in the office was that he didn't
think much of them; but he knows I can write shorthand, and put things
into shape."
"What things?"
"Oh--ideas. He has a notion of trying to come forward in politics. He
owns shares in everything but the United States Senate--gas, electricity,
railroads, aldermen, newspapers--and now he would like some Senate.
That's what I think."
She did not quite understand, and she was far from knowing that this
cynic humor expressed a deadlier pessimism than her father's fiercest
accusals of the country. "How fascinating it is!" she said, innocently.
"And I suppose they all envy your coming out?"
"In the office?"
"Yes. I should envy, them--staying."
Burnamy laughed. "I don't believe they envy me. It won't be all roses for
me--they know that. But they know that I can take care of myself if it
isn't." He remembered something one of his friends in the office had said
of the painful surprise the Bird of Prey would feel if he ever tried his
beak on him in the belief that he was soft.
She abruptly left the mere personal question. "And which would you rather
write: poems or those kind of sketches?"
"I don't know," said Burnamy, willing to talk of himself on any terms. "I
suppose that prose is the thing for our time, rather more; but there are
things you can't say in prose. I used to write a great deal of verse in
college; but I didn't have much luck with editors till Mr. March took
this little piece for 'Every Other Week'."
"Little? I thought it was a long poem!"