"Doctor Johnson," Miss Martha Hopkins remembered, as she watched him
drinking his fourth cup of tea, "Doctor Johnson was also addicted
to tea-drinking. Most great literary men are, I believe."
"It isn't possible you consider old Johnson a great literary man!"
The Author's eyebrows climbed into his hair.
"Why! wasn't he?" Her eyes widened. She had as much respect for Dr.
Johnson as Miss Deborah Jenkyns had, though of course she never read
him. Life is too short.
"Why! was he?" asked The Author. "Outside of Boswell--and _he_ was a
fool--I've never known anybody who thought he amounted to much."
The Suffragist looked up. "Nelson had his Southey, Boswell had his
Johnson, and Mr. Modern Best-seller may well profit by their
example." And she smiled grimly.
The Author's lip lifted. "Oh, but you couldn't do it!" he purred.
"And if I offered you the job you'd excuse your incapacity on the
ground that there wasn't anything to write about. I know you!" He
took another cooky.
"Yes, I dare say I'd blurt out the truth. Women are like that,"
admitted The Suffragist.
"The female of the species is more deadly than the male," conceded
The Author.
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