The Tenderfoot could not help being amused. “Who’s your friend?” He turned a quizzical eye upon a countenance glowing with mischief.
“That’s Alf.”
“In the name of all that’s wonderful, who is Alf?” The tone was expostulation all compact, but as mirth was frankly uppermost, even the most sensitive democrat could hardly have resented it.
“He’s a man on a newspaper.”
“I see,” said the Tenderfoot. But somehow it didn’t explain him.
“An old friend, my dear, and he’s now the Press, with a capital letter. The other day he interviewed me for his paper.”
“How could you let him?” gasped the Tenderfoot.
“For the sake of old times.” Suddenly she loosed her famous note. “That little man is in my stars. He dates back to my earliest flapperdom, when my great ambition was to kill him. He was the greengrocer’s boy in the next street, and he used to call after me:
“‘I am Mary Plantagenet;
Who would imagine it?