"What are they?" he asked.
"Marguerite and Andrews," said I.
Stuart laughed. "They're the only ones I'm sure of," said he. And
then we parted.
But he was right about what he would have accomplished by that time
the next night; for before sundown he had half the story written,
and, what is more, the chapters had come as easily as any writing he
ever did. For docility, Marguerite was a perfect wonder. Not only
did she follow out his wishes; she often anticipated them, and in
certain parts gave him a lead in a new direction, which, Stuart said,
gave the story a hundred per cent. more character.
In short, Marguerite Andrews was keeping her promise to me nobly.
The only thing I regretted about it, now that all seemed plain
sailing, was its effect on Stuart. Her amiability was proving a
great attraction to his susceptible soul, and I was beginning to fear
that Stuart was slowly but surely falling in love with his rebellious
heroine, which would never do, unless she were really real, on which
point I was most uncertain.
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