"I'm merely making an assertion. I'm
willing to back it up by argument, if you like, though I'd rather not.
In fact, I'd much rather not. I prefer simply to make the assertion, and
let it sink in."
But Leaver would speak. "You forget," he said, bitterly, "that I've put
all that behind me. I told you I should never operate again. I meant it."
"Yes, you meant it," said Burns comfortably. "A man means it when he
swears he'll never do again something that has become second nature to
him to do. He'll do it--he's made that way. You will do this thing, and
do it with all your old grip and skill. But I'm not going to discuss it
with you. Some day, if you are good, I'll describe the case to you. It's
one you can handle better than I, and it's going to be up to you."
He got to his feet, ignoring the slow shaking of Leaver's downbent head.
"By the way," he said, with a glance at the cottage, now a mere blur in
the oncoming twilight, "have you heard of the young photographer who is
to sweep down upon us and make wonderful, dream-like images of us all,
for good hard cash and fame? A friend of my wife's: a girl who looks
twenty-five, but is a bit more, I am told. A remarkably good-looking, not
to say fascinating, person with a grandmother still more fascinating--at
least to me. They are to come as soon as this rookery can be made
habitable.
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