“Ability—­that is, a little of it.”

“I guess that depends on the kind of book it is.  I put something of everything I could think of in mine, but I didn’t put any ability in.  I didn’t have any to put, and, besides, I wanted it to sell.  That’s the chapter I love best.”  A large piece of brown paper was waved in the air.  “It’s the one in which the Princess Patricia gets ready to die because she hears her sweetheart making love to some one else, and then she comes to her senses and makes him marry the other girl so they can live miserable ever after, and the Princess goes about doing good like Miss Frances.  But I’m going to marry her to somebody before I’m through—­I’m—­”

“You believe in marriage, then.”  Van Landing smiled, and, stooping, picked up several sheets of paper evidently torn from a blank-book.  “This must be the courtship chapter.  It seems rather sentimental.”

“It is.  Regular mush slush.  It’s the kind of courting a man who isn’t much does—­that is, I guess it’s the kind, but the Princess understands.  She’s been fooled once.  Tell me”—­Carmencita leaned forward and, arms again crossed on Van Landing’s knees, looked anxiously in his face—­“what does a man say when he’s really and truly courting?  I mean a nice man.  When the Real one comes, the Right one—­what will he say?  I’m just about there, and I don’t know how to go on.”

“I wish I could tell you.”  Van Landing leaned back in his chair and, taking out his watch again, looked at it.  “I shouldn’t dare to try to write a novel, consequently—­”

“I’ll try anything while I’m waiting to go to work.”  Carmencita sat back dejectedly.  “Is a book a novel because it has love in it?”

“It is generally supposed to be.  When you are older you may write your love scenes with greater knowledge and—­”

“No, I won’t.  I don’t expect to have any love scenes when I get married.  I’ve read a lot of that, and it don’t last.  All I want my husband to say is, ‘Will you marry me, Carmencita?’ and I will say, ‘Yes,’ and I hope we’ll keep on liking each other.  Some don’t.”  Her face changed, and she sat upright, her hands pressed to her breast. “This is a novel—­to—­night is!  We’re living one, and you’re the Prince and Miss Frances is the Princess, and I found you!  Oh, my goodness! what is that?”

With a swift movement she was on her feet and at the door.  Van Landing, too, rose quickly.  Below could be heard loud voices, the moving of furniture, and the cries of frightened children, and cautiously Carmencita turned the knob and went into the hall.

“Old Beer-Barrel is drunk again.”  Tiptoeing to the banister, she leaned over it.  “When he gets like this he’s crazy as a loon, and some day he’ll kill somebody.  Goodness gracious! he’s coming up here!”

Before Van Landing could reach her she was inside and at the wash-stand.  Taking up the pitcher filled with water, she again ran into the hall, and as the cursing, stumbling man began to mount the stairs she leaned over the banister and poured the contents of the pitcher on his head.  As if shot, the man stood still, face upturned, hair drenched, hands trembling, then he sat down on the steps.