“How very strange!” murmured Miss Bibby.
“Then my shoes,” said Hugh. “There are [p107] authors, doubtless, who can write with these in their customary place—upon their feet. I cannot. My soul is too large, too chaotic. But perhaps you are not interested in men’s shoes, Miss Bibby?”
He was regarding sadly the one of his own that stood in the middle of the floor.
“Oh, an author’s shoes,” murmured Miss Bibby.
“Well then, curious as it may seem to you, that, too, has become one of my spells,” said Hugh, “my feet unfettered beneath my table. One shoe a little pointed to the right in the middle of the room; another, sole upwards, on a chair three and three-quarter feet distant from its fellow.”
“Absolutely remarkable!” gasped Miss Bibby. She looked at him, a pencil poised a little hesitatingly. Was this thing possible? Was the great author then not quite, quite——she hardly liked, even in thought, to use the word sane?
“Oh, of course,” said Hugh diffidently, “the fact may not seem worth mentioning in your article, but it is my experience that there is nothing which so endears a celebrity to his public as his little eccentricities.”
“You are quite right,” said Miss Bibby, “perfectly right, and indeed you are very, very good to make them known to me.”
“Not at all, not at all,” said Hugh [p108] graciously. “Anything else? I like to read myself, in these interviews, what time a writer gets up and goes to bed.”
“Oh yes,” said Miss Bibby, “that will be very interesting.”