Wolverton stood aside for her to enter the sacred places of his writing-room.
She nodded by way of thanks, as she passed him, went in, looked round the room and then having thrown herself with a sigh of relief into his reading chair, proceeded to take off her hat.
“Jolly room,” she remarked pleasantly, as her deft fingers twitched and patted at her hair. “You a writer?”
“My name is Henry Wolverton,” he informed her with a modest dignity.
“What?” she exclaimed, sitting bolt upright and staring at him eagerly. “Henry Wolverton, the historian?”
He nodded gravely.
“Oh, Lord!” she said, and went on, “Well, I was wrong about one thing. I said you must be a dried up little mummy of a man, all beard and spectacles. And you’re not a bit like that. In fact you’re quite unusually goodlooking.”
The faintest adumbration of a flush tinged Wolverton’s white forehead. “My name appears to be known to you,” he remarked, ignoring the compliment.
“Obviously,” his visitor retorted. “Pretty well known to everyone, I should imagine, just now.”
“May I ask why?” he put in.