Her Guggenheim Fellowship had been renewed, and she had got a thousand-dollar advance for a travel book: she and Sidney (he had said to his employers, I have to go, Gertrude  is leaving; they had said, All right) were going to Peru or Chile or Ecuador - I forget which, the one where you can live like a prince on practically nothing. There Gertrude was going to write not a travel book - this wouldn't have surprised her publishers, they knew her - but the conclusion of her novel about Benton. She felt about each book, always: "This one is going to be different. This one will dot it!" About this one she didn't feel it, she knew it.