"Oh, did Mr. Harbinger like it?" she asked. "I am so interested to know what he thinks of it."
"You never will know from me, my dear," was the cool response. "I've forbidden him to speak of it. I tell you that I am bored to death with the old thing."
May started up suddenly from the sofa where she had been sitting beside Mrs. Harbinger. With rather an offended air she crossed to the fireplace, and began to arrange her hat before the mirror over the mantel. Mrs. Harbinger, smiling to herself, gave her attention to setting in order the cups on the tea-table before her. The sun of the April afternoon came in through the window, and from the polished floor of the drawing-room was reflected in bright patches on the ceiling; the brightness seemed to gather about the young, girlish face which looked out from the glass, with red lips and willful brown hair in tendrils over the white forehead. Yet as she faced her reflection, May pouted and put on the look of one aggrieved.
"I am sorry I mentioned the book if you are so dreadfully against it," she observed stiffly. "I was only going to tell you a secret about the author."
Mrs. Harbinger laughed lightly, flashing a comical grimace at her visitor's back.
"There you go again, like everybody else! Do you suppose, May, that there is anybody I know who hasn't told me a secret about the author? Why, I'm in the confidence of at least six persons who cannot deny that they wrote it."
May whirled around swiftly, leaving her reflection so suddenly that it, offended, as quickly turned its back on her.
"Who are they?" she demanded.
"Well," the other answered quizzically, "Mrs. Croydon, for one."
"Mrs. Croydon! Why, nobody could dream that she wrote it!"