Stanley decided to treat that as irrelevant. She felt a lump rise in her throat, for she had come to love living in America. And when she went to sleep, then always Capes became the novel and wonderful guest of her dreams. He pulled on her shoulder, bringing her mouth to his in a kiss. But out of a belated regard for her father she wrote the surname of some one else. Dolls. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. His quiet, kindly smile implied his serene disbelief in any confessible thing.
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