"You know Mr. Bennett?" interrupted Sheila. And her tone was reverent.
"Yes," said Charlotte carelessly. "I know a lot of writing folks in New York. In fact I've brought one of them home with me—Alice North, the novelist. Maybe you've read something of hers?"
"Something? Why, I've read everything of hers I could lay my hands on! Oh, Charlotte, I adore her!"
"So do I," laughed Charlotte, "not her books, but her. She writes very well, but she's more interesting than her stories. Now, Sheila, I'll tell you what you must do—you must let me have some of your things to show her! She could be such a help to you if she found you worth the trouble. Let me have a story or two now, and come up to-morrow afternoon to tea—and to hear what she thinks of them."
Sheila caught her breath. "Oh, it's too presumptuous," she demurred, shyly. "For me to bother Alice North!"
Her eyes were shining, nevertheless, as if at sight of a long-promised land, and Charlotte presently departed with a couple of manuscripts for the touchstone of Mrs. North's criticism.
When Ted came home that evening, he found a Sheila tremulous with excitement, her eyes shining still, her cheeks, which were usually pale, flushed to a vivid rose.
"Oh, Ted," she exclaimed at once, "Charlotte is back!"
"Yes," he assented good-naturedly, "I heard about it this morning and gave her a write-up with a picture." For Ted invariably looked upon events in the terms of their newspaper value.
"Did you know that she brought Alice North home with her?"