Swiftly, she turned to others and I was left in the care of the dearest little lady, just five feet nothing in highest heels, who looked like a rosebud wrapped in lace, and smiled at me.
"I am going to take you right over there by the window," she said. "I just dote on people who write books and I remember your name perfectly well. You are the author of 'The World's Grist' and 'Meg's Temptation.'"
She sat down, with a little sign extending her gracious permission for me to do likewise, whereupon I hastened to assure her that I made no claim to the reputation so thoroughly deserved by the authors of those magnificent novels.
"Then, tell me the names of your books, won't you?"
Somewhat diffidently I acquainted her with a few of the titles, whereupon she joyfully declared that she remembered one of them perfectly.
"The heroine was called Rose," she said, triumphantly.
"It seems to me that it was Kate," I replied, modestly.
"Yes, Kate, of course, and do you really think she was happy ever after with that extraordinary man Jonas?"
"I think I recollect marrying her off to one Fitzjames, but that is only a minor detail. A novelist, my dear young lady, may assert with some show of confidence that the weddings he brings about are warranted not to crock, but you must remember he deals with fiction. The future lies in the hollow of no man's hand and, since I write chiefly of modern days, I save myself the saddening task of following my heroines to the grave. To me they are all alive, yet, happy as the day is long, revelling in sunshine and basking in undying love."
She folded her little hands on her lap, opened her big blue eyes very widely and sighed gently.