"Not _the Mr. ---_, _really_?"
In her deep brown eyes there lurked pleased surprise, struggling with
wonder. She looked from myself to the friend who introduced us with a
bewitching smile of incredulity, tempered by hope.
He assured her, adding laughingly, "The only genuine and original," and
left us.
"I've always thought of you as a staid, middle-aged man," she said, with
a delicious little laugh, then added in low soft tones, "I'm so very
pleased to meet you, really."
The words were conventional, but her voice crept round one like a warm
caress.
"Come and talk to me," she said, seating herself upon a small settee, and
making room for me.
I sat down awkwardly beside her, my head buzzing just a little, as with
one glass too many of champagne. I was in my literary childhood. One
small book and a few essays and criticisms, scattered through various
obscure periodicals had been as yet my only contributions to current
literature. The sudden discovery that I was the Mr. Anybody, and that
charming women thought of me, and were delighted to meet me, was a brain-
disturbing thought.
"And it was really you who wrote that clever book?" she continued, "and
all those brilliant things, in the magazines and journals. Oh, it must
be delightful to be clever."
She gave breath to a little sigh of vain regret that went to my heart. To
console her I commenced a laboured compliment, but she stopped me with
her fan. On after reflection I was glad she had--it would have been one
of those things better expressed otherwise.
"I know what you are going to say," she laughed, "but don't. Besides,
from you I should not know quite how to take it. You can be so
satirical."