"How innocent you are!" cried Lorimer, laughing loudly. "Yes, she is an artist, if you will—who works for some fashion paper—or a lady reporter taking notes for a society paper."
"But I do not know her," said Dora; "I am perfectly sure I never asked her here."
"You, no; but perhaps someone else. For that matter reporters find their way pretty nearly everywhere without invitation. It is their calling. This one is taking notes, to publish in her paper an account of your party."
"But it is an insult," cried Dora; "I wish they would leave me alone. I don't want accounts in papers—my house is private."
"Wait a moment—why, yes," exclaimed Lorimer, who had just put up his eyeglass to look at the lady in question; "yes, of course, I know her, she writes for The Social Wave, a paper for people in the swim. Shall I introduce her to you?"
"Oh, no thank you, please don't," replied Dora.
"Some time ago," continued Lorimer, "I used to meet her often at parties. She is a rather clever little woman, and has the knack of turning out readable paragraphs. She is tolerated everywhere for the sake of what she writes—you know, there are plenty of people who like publicity."
Lorimer had noticed that the lady reporter had let fall two leaves from her notebook. He watched his opportunity, picked them up, and brought them to Dora.
"Look, we are going to have some fun. I have samples. Listen, 'Lady Mardon looked thrillingly lovely in electric blue ... her superb shoulders'" ...
"Enough, enough," said Dora. "The idea of it."