'Mine is Rose Maynard.'
James led the way into the house, and she stopped with a cry of delight on the threshold of the morning-room.
'Oh, how too perfect!' she cried. 'So this was her study?'
'Yes.'
'What a wonderful place it would be for you to think in if you were a writer too.'
James held no high opinion of women's literary taste, but nevertheless he was conscious of an unpleasant shock.
'I am a writer,' he said coldly. 'I write detective stories.'
'I—I'm afraid,'—she blushed—'I'm afraid I don't often read detective stories.'
'You no doubt prefer,' said James, still more coldly, 'the sort of thing my aunt used to write.'
'Oh, I love her stories!' cried the girl, clasping her hands ecstatically. 'Don't you?'