“Why—ah—I read about you somewhere,” I stammered. “Some newspaper correspondent drew a picture of the scene on the promenade in the afternoon, and—ah—he had you down.” “Oh!” she replied, arching her eyebrows; “that was it, was it? And do you waste your valuable time reading the vulgar effusions of the society reporter?” Wasn’t I glad that I had not come as a man with a nose to project into the affairs of others—as a newspaper reporter! “No, indeed,” I rejoined, “not generally; but I happened to see this particular item, and read it and remembered it. After all,” I added, as we came to the sylvan path that leads to the Lake—“after all, one might as well read that sort of stuff as most of the novels of the present day. The vulgar reporter may be ignorant or a boor, and all that is reprehensible in his methods, but he writes about real flesh and blood people; and, what is worse, he generally approximates the truth concerning them in his writing, which is more than can be said of the so-called realistic novel writers of the day. I haven’t read a novel in three years in which it has seemed to me that the heroine, for instance, was anything more than a marionette, with no will of her own, and ready to do at any time any foolish thing the author wanted her to do.” Again those eyes of Miss Andrews rested on me in a manner which gave me considerable apprehension. Then she laughed, and I was at ease again. “You are very amusing,” she said, quietly. “The most amusing of them all.” The remark nettled me, and I quickly retorted: “Then I have not lived in vain.” “You do really live, then, eh?” she asked, half chaffingly, gazing at me out of the corners of her eyes in a fashion which utterly disarmed me. “Excuse me, Miss Andrews,” I answered, “but I am afraid I don’t understand you.” “I am afraid you don’t,” she said, the smile leaving her lips. “The fact that you are here on the errand you have charged yourself with proves that.” “I am not aware,” I said, “that I have come on any particularly ridiculous errand. May I ask you what you mean by the expression ‘most amusing of them all’? Am I one among many, and, if so, one what among many what?” “Your errand is a good one,” she said, gravely, “and not at all ridiculous; let me assure you that I appreciate that fact. Your question I will answer by asking another: Are you here of your own volition, or has Stuart Harley created you, as he did Messrs. Osborne, Parker, and the Professor? Are you my new hero, or what?” The question irritated me. This woman was not content with interfering seriously with my friend’s happiness: she was actually attributing me to him, casting doubts upon my existence, and placing me in the same category with herself—a mere book creature. To a man who regards himself as being the real thing, flesh and blood, and, well, eighteen-carat flesh and blood at that, to be accused of living only a figmentary existence is too much. I retorted angrily.