"My golly!" Creighton had listened to the concluding phrases of her anecdote with wonderment writ large on his face. He carefully put his knife and fork on his plate and leaned back in his chair while he continued to regard her with a rapt expression. "Are you October Copley?"
"Yes!" laughed the lady.
"The October Copley?"
"I'm quite unique, I believe," said Miss Ocky cheerfully.
"Did you write 'Thibetan Trails,' 'Passages from Persia' and those bully Chinese things with the queer title?"
"'Chiliads of China.' Yes, I wrote 'em. Don't sit there and tell me you've read them!"
"Read them—I've loved them! It's a wonder I didn't connect your name with them at once. My wits have been woolgathering. But, hang it! Who could have expected to find an internationally famous writer and traveler stuck away in this corner of the world? Why haven't seventeen or ninety people told me who you were?"
She laughed at his eager interest.
"A prophet is without honor in his own country," she said. "To my family I'm just Ocky; to the natives of Hambleton I'm only 'that Copley girl with the queer name who's come back from furrin parts'."
She laughed again, half surprised and half embarrassed, as he suddenly rose from his chair, marched around the table, shook hands with her and solemnly marched back again to his seat.