My wife reminded me that we were to dine at the Royles's that night. As I dressed I was still turning over in my mind the unlimited possibilities of my first mystery-story. I could see the colored jackets of the book, the publisher's announcements, other volumes in the same series, “The Musical Fingerbowls,” “The Pink Emerald,” “The Green Samovar,” “The Purple Umbrella.” Imagination flamed. My wife said she had called me three times, but I know it was only once.
I had expected it to be rather a dull dinner party, but really Mrs. Revis quite brightened it for me. She was immediately interested in my becoming an author, and she began to talk about Dostoyevsky.
“Well, you know—just at first,” I rejoined in modest deprecation of my own talents.
“And tell me your first story. What is it to be?” She leaned toward me with large and shining eyes. I had a moment of wishing the title were not quite so sensational.
“It is to be called 'The Chinaman's Head,'” I said, hastening to add, “You see, it is a very deep mystery-story.”
“A-ah, mystery!” said Mrs. Revis, clasping her beautiful hands and gazing upward. “I adore mystery!”
“The plot is,” I said—“well, you see, there is a soap manufacturer—”
“A-ah, soup!” softly moaned Mrs. Revis, gazing at hers.
“No; soap,” I said. “The soap manufacturer is walking along Fifth Avenue—”
“They really shouldn't allow them,” exclaimed my confidante.