Then demurely enough she presented herself to the waiting guest.
"Mrs. Farrington?" he said interrogatively, as he rose.
"Good-afternoon," she answered, extending her hand graciously. "Won't you
be seated?"
He looked surprised. As a rule, the reception accorded to him was not
so cordial.
"I came here on behalf of the Boston _Intermountain_," he said a little
uneasily. "They are making up a Thanksgiving number, and are anxious for
a special feature or two. Among other things, they want a little sketch
of your work and your ways of doing it."
"Certainly." Cicely seated herself on the sofa and smiled encouragement
at the young man, while she vaguely wondered whether he had discovered
that her cousin's waist measure was three inches smaller than her own.
"Might I ask," he inquired, as he pulled out a notebook; "whether you
are busy just now on a new book?"
"Yes, I am writing four at present," she answered unexpectedly.
"Four, all at once?"
"Yes."
"But--pardon me--but is there not danger of confusing them?"
"Oh, no; I keep them in different pigeon-holes," Cicely replied blandly.
"Ah, yes. Do you? Very good!" He laughed a little vaguely. "Are they to
come out soon?"
"This winter, all but one. That will not appear for seven years."
"Indeed. And are you willing, Mrs. Farrington to tell me when you do
your writing?"
"Certainly.
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