"Welcome home! I hope I didn't interrupt your work, but it seemed I couldn't wait! And, of course, I haven't half thanked you yet, haven't begun to tell you how much—how much—I appreciate all you've done for me...."
Once more, the fortunate Charles was brushing aside a lady's gratitude—rather generously, considering the infrequency of grounds of gratitude here. He laughed gaily into the receiver.
"The real point is, why under the sun did you connect me right away with the remarkable outburst of popular admiration? Hartwell went gossiping about, I suppose?"
"I didn't need Mr. Hartwell to tell me anything about that! But—"
"Aha! So Fanny told you about the photographs—"
"She never breathed a word—"
"Good-evening, Miss Holmes!—old Watson speaking! Will you kindly explain your—!"
"Why, of course there wasn't but one person on earth who could have done such a beautiful thing for me!"
All alone in the hall, Charles felt himself coloring with pleasure. However, the unwonted flush was not for long.
"I have to pinch myself," the girl's eager voice rushed on (did it sound just a thought more triumphant than even the author of the write-ups could have expected?),—"for every magazine I pick up is full of nothing but Me! I've just seen 'Willcox's'—oh, you don't know how much I liked that! You've simply taken my breath away! And then to come in and find this!—everything beautiful happening to me at once! I—"