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