"I can't even imagine where she is."
"All of which, my dear Stuart," I said, adopting a superior tone for
the moment, "shows that an imagination that is worth something
wouldn't be a bad possession for a realist, after all. I know where
your heroine is. She is at a little mountain house near Lake George,
and she has fled there to escape your booby of a hero, whom you
should have known better than to force upon a girl like Marguerite
Andrews. You're getting inartistic, my dear boy. Sacrifice
something to the American girl, but don't sacrifice your art. Just
because the aforesaid girl likes her stories to end up with a wedding
is no reason why you should try to condemn your heroine to life-long
misery."
Stuart looked at me with a puzzled expression for a full minute.
"How the deuce do you know anything about it?" he asked.
I immediately enlightened him. I told him every circumstance--even
my suspicion as to the hero of her heart, and it seemed to please
him.
"Won't the story go if you stop it with the engagement?" I asked,
after it was all over.
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