“I should always have hated myself if I had been late,” he replied. “A neat and courteous retort! You see the tea house is closed. That’s why I chose it. Rather more fun anyhow, bringing your own things.” They were very nice things. He wondered how she had got them there. “I hope,” he remarked leadingly, “you didn’t have to bring them far!” She laughed merrily at his confusion as he realized that this was equivalent to asking her where she lived. “Let’s assume that the fairies set the table. Do you take yours strong?” He delayed answering that she might poise the spoonful of tea over the pot as long as possible. Hers was an unusual hand; in his tales he had tried often to describe that particular hand without ever quite hitting it. He liked its brownness--tennis probably; possibly she did golf too. Whatever sports she affected, he was quite sure that she did them well. “I knew you would like tea, for the people in your novels drink such quarts; and that was a bully short story of yours, The Lost Tea Basket--killingly funny--the real Farrington cleverness!” He blinked, knowing how dead the real Farrington cleverness had become. Her manner was that of any well-brought-up girl at a tea table, and her attitude toward him continued to be that of an old acquaintance. She took him as a matter of course; and though this was pleasant, it shut the door on the thousand and one questions he wished to ask her. Just now she was urging him to try the sandwiches; she had made them herself, she averred, and he need not be afraid of them. “Perhaps,” he suggested with an accession of courage, “you won’t mind telling me your name.” “It was nice of you to come,” she remarked dreamily, ignoring his question, “without asking for credentials. I’ll be perfectly frank and tell you that I couldn’t give you references if you asked for them; you’re my first client! I almost said patient!” she added laughingly. “If you had said patient you would have made no mistake! I’ve been out of sorts--my wits not working for months.” “I thought your last book sounded a little tired,” she replied. “There were internal evidences of weariness. You rather worked the long arm of coincidence overtime, for example--none of your earlier bounce and zest. Even your last short story didn’t quite get over--a little too self-conscious probably; and the heroine must have identified the hero the first time she saw him in his canoe.” She not only stated her criticisms frankly but she uttered them with assurance, as though she had every right to pass judgment on his performances. This was the least bit irritating. He was slightly annoyed--as annoyed as any man of decent manners dare be at the prettiest girl who has ever brightened his horizon. But this passed quickly. Not only was she a pretty girl but he became conscious of little graces and gestures, and of a charming direct gaze, that fascinated him. And, for all her youth, she was very wise; he was confident of that.