It was a weak answer. There was no satisfaction in it, no meat, no pith at all, nothing to carry home with you. Mrs. Buhl said, "Oh!"
"To what, then," piped Jimmy Gallows, "do you attribute your success?"
He was a goaded lion, one could see quite plainly; the strain was telling on his self-control.
"It is not worth mentioning, Mr. Gallows," he replied, stiffly.
"Mr. St. John," Letitia interposed, in a quiet voice, "was just now telling me that there is no music in all New York to compare with Troublesome's. Shall we go into the other room?"
That night, when the last guest had departed, I asked Letitia, "Well, what do you think of the author?"
"I am not disappointed," she replied.
"Not much of a talker, though?" I suggested.
"He does not pretend to be a talker," she replied, warmly. "He is a writer. No," she repeated, "I am not disappointed in my Johnny Keats."