The girl started, and recovered herself with an effort.
"I—well, I was thinking about—authors," she stammered.
"Any particular author?" inquired Olivia, "or authors as a class?"
"About your brother being one. I never thought I should see any one who knew an author—and you are related to one!"
Her companion's smile was significant of immense experience. It was plain that she was so accustomed to living on terms of intimacy with any number of authors that she could afford to feel indifferent about them.
"My dear," she said, amiably, "they are not in the least different from other people."
It sounded something like blasphemy.
"Not different!" cried Louisiana. "Oh, surely, they must be! Isn't—isn't your brother different?"
Miss Ferrol stopped to think. She was very fond of her brother. Privately she considered him the literary man of his day. She was simply disgusted when she heard experienced critics only calling him "clever" and "brilliant" instead of "great" and "world-moving."
"Yes," she replied at length, "he is different."