“We must wait and hope,” said Alice.  Then looking up at Quincy with an arch smile upon her face, she added, “I will extend your time, Sir Knight.  Your gallant efforts have so far been unsuccessful, but I shall pray that you may some day return victorious.”

Quincy replied in the same tone of banter:  “Knowing that you, fair lady, are ever thinking of me, and that my name is ever upon your fair lips in prayer, will spur me to renewed effort, for surely no cavalier ever had a more lovely mistress or a greater incentive to knightly action.”

Although he spoke in a chaffing tone, there was an undercurrent of seriousness in his manner and pathos in his voice that made Alice start and flush visibly.

Fearing that he had gone too far he quickly changed the subject by asking abruptly, “Have you come to any decision about your book?”

“Yes,” replied Alice, “and I am ashamed to say that your friend’s suggestion and your warm endorsement of it have so increased my egotism and enlarged my appreciation of my own abilities that I am tempted to try it, especially now, as you inform me I am independent and can do as I please.”

“Have you progressed so far as to fix upon a subject?” inquired Quincy.

“Yes, provisionally,” replied Alice.  “I have always been a great admirer of history, and particularly that of my own country.  For the period from 1776, no, from 1607, to the present time I have become conversant with the thoughts and acts of our patriots and public men.  One character has always been a mystery to me, and I wish to learn all I can about him.”

“And he?” questioned Quincy.

“Is Aaron Burr,” said Alice.  “How I wish I could learn the truth about the loss of his daughter Theodosia; then the real reasons for his duel with Alexander Hamilton are not fully understood at the present day.  Then again, I should enjoy writing about that fine old Irish gentleman and lover of science, Harman Blennerhassett, and his lovely wife, Margaret.”

“Have you decided upon the title?” still further questioned Quincy.

“I have thought of two,” she replied, “‘Theodosia,’ and ‘Blennerhassett,’ but I strongly incline to the latter.”

“So do I,” said Quincy, “but you will have to do much more reading, no doubt, before you commence writing.  Historical novels are usually savagely attacked by the critics, presumably very often from political motives, and you would have to be very strong in your authorities.”

“That is what troubles me,” said Alice; “if I only could read—­”

“But others can read to you and make such notes as you desire,” remarked Quincy.  “I should like nothing better than to help you in such a work, but I have been away from home so long that I feel it imperative to resume my business duties at an early day.”

“I think you ought,” said Alice.  “I could not presume to trespass upon your kindness and good nature to such an extent.  The idea of writing this book has grown very pleasing to me, but I can wait until—­” She stopped speaking and placed both of her hands over her eyes.  “I can wait,” she repeated, “until my eyes are better.”