Hephzy burst into enthusiastic praise of the Baylisses and the curates and the Coles. “They're all just as nice as they can be,” she declared. “I never met nicer folks, at home or anywhere.” Frances nodded. “All English people are nice,” she said. Again I thought of Mrs. Briggs and again I kept my thoughts to myself. Hephzy went on rhapsodizing. I paid little attention until I heard her speak my name. “And Hosy thinks so, too. Don't you, Hosy?” she said. I answered yes, on the chance. Frances regarded me oddly. “I thought--I understood that your name was Kent, Mr. Knowles,” she said. “It is.” “Then why does Miss Cahoon always--” Hephzy interrupted. “Oh, I always call him Hosy,” she explained. “It's a kind of pet name of mine. It's short for Hosea. His whole name is Hosea Kent Knowles, but 'most everybody but me does call him Kent. I don't think he likes Hosea very well.” Our companion looked very much as if she did not wonder at my dislike. Her eyes twinkled. “Hosea,” she repeated. “That is an odd name. The original Hosea was a prophet, wasn't he? Are you a prophet, Mr. Knowles?” “Far from it,” I answered, with decision. If I had been a prophet I should have been forewarned and, consequently, forearmed. She smiled and against my will I was forced to admit that her smile was attractive; she was prettier than ever when she smiled. “I remember now,” she said; “all Americans have Scriptural names. I have read about them in books.” “Hosy writes books,” said Hephzy, proudly. “That's his profession; he's an author.” “Oh, really, is he! How interesting!” “Yes, he is. He has written ever so many books; haven't you, Hosy.” I didn't answer. My self and my “profession” were the last subjects I cared to discuss. The young lady's smile broadened. “And where do you write your books, Mr. Knowles?” she asked. “In--er--Bayport?” “Yes,” I answered, shortly. “Hephzy, Miss Morley will have another cup of tea, I think.” “Oh, no, thank you. But tell me about your books, Mr. Knowles. Are they stories of Bayport?” “No indeed!” Hephzy would do my talking for me, and I could not order her to be quiet. “No indeed!” she declared. “He writes about lords and ladies and counts and such. He hardly ever writes about everyday people like the ones in Bayport. You would like his books, Frances. You would enjoy readin' 'em, I know.” “I am sure I should. They must be delightful. I do hope you brought some with you, Mr. Knowles.” “He didn't, but I did. I'll lend you some, Frances. I'll lend you 'The Queen's Amulet.' That's a splendid story.” “I am sure it must be. So you write about queens, too, Mr. Knowles. I thought Americans scorned royalty. And what is his queen's name, Miss Cahoon? Is it Scriptural?”