“Ah,—that was very naughty, Mr. Brown.”
“And then, you know, I have so many yards of stupid stuff to arrange.”
“Oh, Mr. Brown, you should forget all that!”
“So I will. I could not resist the temptation of telling you of it again, because you are so much mistaken in your accusation. And now about your novel.”
“It isn’t mine, you know.”
“Not yours?”
“Not my own, Mr. Brown.”
“Then whose is it?”
Mr. Brown, as he asked this question, felt that he had a right to be offended. “Are you not Josephine de Montmorenci?”
“Me an author! Oh no, Mr. Brown,” said the pretty little woman. And our editor almost thought that he could see a smile on her lips as she spoke.