That afternoon Kendricks came promptly to call, like the little gentleman he was, and he was more satisfactory about Saratoga than he had been in the morning even. Mrs. March catechised him, and she didn’t leave an emotion of his unsearched by her vivid sympathy. She ended by saying—
“You must write a story about Saratoga. And I have got just the heroine for you.”
I started, but she ignored my start.
Kendricks laughed, delighted, and asked, “Is she pretty?”
“Must a heroine be pretty?”
“She had better be. Otherwise she will have to be tremendously clever and say all sorts of brilliant things, and that puts a great burden on the author. If you proclaim boldly at the start that she’s a beauty, the illustrator has got to look after her, and the author has a comparative sinecure.”
Mrs. March thought a moment, and then she said: “Well, she is a beauty. I don’t want to make it too hard for you.”
“When shall I see her?” Kendricks demanded, and he feigned an amusing anxiety.
“Well, that depends upon how you behave, Mr. Kendricks. If you are very, very good, perhaps I may let you see her this evening. We will take you to call upon her.”
“Is it possible? Do you mean business? Then she is—in society?”