After a time we remembered Hephzy. It would be more truthful to say that Frances remembered her. I had forgotten Hephzy altogether, I am ashamed to say.
“Kent,” she said; “don't you think we should tell Auntie now? She will be pleased, I hope.”
“Pleased! She will be—I can't think of a word to describe it. She loves you, too, dear.”
“I know. I hope she will love me more now. She worships you, Kent.”
“I am afraid she does. She doesn't realize what a tinsel god I am. And I fear you don't either. I am not a great man. I am not even a famous author. I—Are you SURE, Frances?”
She laughed lightly. “Kent,” she whispered, “what was it Doctor Bayliss called you when you offered to promise not to follow me to Leatherhead?”
I had told her the whole story of my last interview with Bayliss at the Continental.
“He called me a silly ass,” I answered promptly. “I don't care.”
“Neither do I; but don't you think you are one, just a little bit of one, in some things? You mustn't ask me if I am sure again. Come! we will go to Auntie.”
Hephzy had finished unpacking my trunk and was standing by the closet door, shaking the wrinkles out of my dinner coat. She heard us enter and turned.