Next time a
writer, or, better still, a fiddler or a pianist comes to your town,
look in your home paper the morning after, and you'll see it.
As it happened, The Author was not at home. His secretary had
arrived a day or two before, and after unloading a systemful of copy
upon that faithful beast of burden, The Author had given himself a
half-holiday with old Riedriech, who knew quite enough about old
furniture to win his interest and affection.
Miss Hopkins, then, had Alicia and me to herself. Sedately we
discussed rummage-sales, and the effect of cotton shirts upon the
adolescent cannibal; and all the while Miss Hopkins was stealthily
watching doors and windows and hoping that high heaven would send
The Author to her hands. We hadn't so much as mentioned his name. It
pleased us to sit there and watch her trying to make us do so.
The iron knocker on the front door sounded. And ushered in by
Queenasheeba, there stood Nicholas Jelnik with great gray Boris
beside him, and beauty and glamour and romance upon him like a
light. Miss Hopkins had seen him on the streets, but hadn't met him
personally. I don't think she relished the fact that she had to come
to Hynds House to do so.
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