I stared at this name in speechless amazement. I had supposed Henrietta long married to Bantling, and by this time the mother of an infinite progeny. And Omaha! But, as I have intimated, much has happened since 1881. And before I could frame some manner of remark, my companion again addressed me:
“I wish you would give me some information.”
“I shall be only too delighted, my dear Miss Stackpole!” I assured her effusively. “I have heard so much about you. This is my name”; and I offered her my card in return.
“Where have you heard about me?” she demanded in surprise.
“Why, from Mr. James,” I replied.
“Mis-ter James?” she repeated in deep mystification. “I don’t remember any Mr. James. Oh, do you mean Mr. Reuben James, of Topeka?”
“No, Mr. Henry James, of London,” I told her.
“I don’t know any Mr. Henry James,” she declared decisively. “He must have seen my letters in the Reviewer.”
“Oh, of course!” I uttered, with considerable confusion. “I beg your pardon. I thought——You see——What information can I give you?”
“Well, would you mind telling me if this is really Venus?” she asked confidentially, sketching a circle in the ambient air.