“Dear, how I should like to meet the author!” exclaimed a voice. “He must be a charming man, and so young, too! I believe you said you knew him, Mr. Allen.”
“An old acquaintance,” he answered, “and I am always reminding him that his work is overestimated.”
“How can you say he is overestimated!” said a voice.
“You men are all jealous of him,” said another.
“Is he handsome? I have heard he is.”
“He would scarcely be called so,” said the Celebrity, doubtfully.
“He is, girls,” Miss Trevor interposed; “I have seen his photograph.”
“What does he look like, Irene?” they chorused. “Men are no judges.”
“He is tall, and dark, and broad-shouldered,” Miss Trevor enumerated, as though counting her stitches, “and he has a very firm chin, and a straight nose, and—”
“Perfect!” they cried. “I had an idea he was just like that. I should go wild about him. Does he talk as well as he writes, Mr. Allen?”