“Hosy writes books,” said Hephzy, proudly. “That's his profession; he's an author.”
“Oh, really, is he! How interesting!”
“Yes, he is. He has written ever so many books; haven't you, Hosy.”
I didn't answer. My self and my “profession” were the last subjects I cared to discuss. The young lady's smile broadened.
“And where do you write your books, Mr. Knowles?” she asked. “In—er—Bayport?”
“Yes,” I answered, shortly. “Hephzy, Miss Morley will have another cup of tea, I think.”
“Oh, no, thank you. But tell me about your books, Mr. Knowles. Are they stories of Bayport?”
“No indeed!” Hephzy would do my talking for me, and I could not order her to be quiet. “No indeed!” she declared. “He writes about lords and ladies and counts and such. He hardly ever writes about everyday people like the ones in Bayport. You would like his books, Frances. You would enjoy readin' 'em, I know.”
“I am sure I should. They must be delightful. I do hope you brought some with you, Mr. Knowles.”
“He didn't, but I did. I'll lend you some, Frances. I'll lend you 'The Queen's Amulet.' That's a splendid story.”