“As poor as a church mouse,” said Jane, impressively. “I’m supported by contributions made by the Willoughby connection, and because my bills for the past season have been a—a trifle large, they wrote me an abusive letter. Fancy!”
“Fancy!” echoed the man, absent-mindedly. “Why don’t you——”
But an explosive blast on a horn interrupted him. Jane rose hastily. “That’s Johnson,” she said. “I must go. But how are you going to get back to Rosemount?” she demanded.
“Oh, I’ll pick up one of the market gardeners along the road,” he answered, indifferently. “Besides, I came out on a quest, and I can’t return until it is successfully consummated.”
“A quest!” echoed Jane, and promptly sat down again. “It sounds interesting,” she said; “tell me about it.”
“I’m looking for a heroine,” he explained.
“A heroine!” repeated Mrs. De Mille, blankly, wondering for the first time if he was as sane as he looked.
“Yes, for a book, you know,” he said, in a matter-of-fact way. “I scribble for a living, and lately my publishers have complained that I never draw a real flesh-and-blood woman. I’ve determined to put one in the new book I’m writing.”
“So you’re strolling around the country in search of one,” mused Jane. “I should think you’d stand a better chance of finding one in town.” There was another blast on the horn, short and angry this time, but Mrs. De Mille waved it airily aside.
“I can’t work in town,” he answered. “I’ve just come back from Alaska, and it seems so shut-in there.” He nodded in the direction of the skyscrapers of New York.