All of a sudden, there was movement behind him. "Not in the least," returned Kneebone, slyly, "not in the least. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. How dare you use my name and sing my songs?” Anna looked at her sister in blank amazement. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. It wasn’t anything splendid, you know. “Morning, Mom.
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