Bob, his brain whirling, muttered something.
"But I'm going to confess to you again, I like artists so much better than I do musicians."
A light dawned on Bob. "But I'm not an artist nor a musician," he blurted out.
The pink-upholstered lady, starting back with an agility remarkable in one of her size, clasped her hands.
"Don't tell me you write!" she cried dramatically.
"All right, I won't," protested poor Bob, "for I don't."
A slow expression of bewilderment overspread Mrs. Annis's face, and she glanced toward Baker with an arched brow of interrogation.
"I merely wanted Mr. Orde to meet you, Mrs. Annis," he said impressively, "and to feel that another time, when he is less exhausted by the strain of a long day, he may have the privilege of explaining to you the details of the great Psychic Movement he is inaugurating."
Mrs. Annis smiled on him graciously. "I am home every Sunday to my intimes," she murmured. "I should be so pleased."
Bob bowed mechanically.