"I didn't say anything," he answered. "I was only thinking. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Walbridge."
Her worn face softened into a kind smile, and he noticed that her teeth were even and very white.
"It is awful, isn't it," she said, "to—to get thinking about things when one ought to be talking? I'm afraid I'm very dull for a young man to sit next."
"Oh, come, Mrs. Walbridge," he protested, "when you know how they all lapped up that article I wrote about you."
She bridled gently. "It was a very nice article." After a minute she added anxiously, her thin fingers pressing an old blue enamel brooch that fastened the rather crumpled lace at her throat: "Tell me, Mr. Wick, do you—do you really think that—that people like my books as much as they used to?"
"You must have a very big public," he answered, wishing she had not put the question.
"Yes, I know I have, but—you see, of course I'm not young any more, and the children—they know a great many people, and bring some of them here and—I've noticed that while they are all very kind, they don't seem to have—to have really read my books."
"Don't they?" said Wick, full of sympathy. "Dear me!"
She shook her head. "No, they really don't, and I've been wondering if—if it is that they're beginning to find me—a little old-fashioned."