She told her literary friend how much she admired the book, and then he said:
“By the way, the author is in London at present. He crossed the ‘big pond’ a few days ago to look after the interests of his book, which was published here simultaneously with its appearance in New York. I have had the pleasure of an introduction. Would you like for me to bring him to call?”
“I—I don’t know,” she said, pursing her lips dubiously. “Would he be interesting, do you think?”
“All the ladies who have seen him declare that he is more charming than his book.”
“Young?”
“On the sunny side of thirty.”
“Oh, how pleasant! I wish I were smart enough to write a book.”
Her English friend laughed at her Yankee phrase, “smart,” then asked:
“May I bring him?”
“Please do; I want to see if he looks like his hero,” she replied, with awakened interest, and that day she told her adopted mother that Mr. Converse was going to bring the American author to call.