"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. I do it all at night." "But isn't that very wearing?" "Of course. I am often a total wreck for months after finishing a book." "Where do you do your writing?" For a moment, Cicely hesitated between the rival charms of the front steps and the attic. Then she replied,-- "In the kitchen." "The--kitchen!" For an instant, the man was thrown from his professional calm. "Yes. I put my little kettle of tea to draw on the hob--" "The--what?" "The hob," Cicely said severely; "and when I am tired of writing, I refresh myself with a cup of Flowery Pekoe and a biscuit, and then I return to my pen once more." "How much do you usually accomplish in a night?" "Four thousand, five hundred words is my usual limit." "And do your never write during the day?" "Never. My thoughts only arise by candle-light." At this poetic outburst, the interviewer glanced up and privately registered the belief that Mrs. Farrington was slightly cracked. "I always sleep till noon," Cicely reassured him. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" "No, thank you. I think not. This will make a very interesting and acceptable article, I am sure. But, before I go, would you mind telling me what you think of Browning?" "The greatest poet of the century," Cicely replied glibly, mindful of local prejudice. "And your favorite poem?" he asked insinuatingly. Then at last Cicely floundered, for she was quite beyond her depth. "I think the _Rubaiyát_ is by far the best," she said gravely, and her querist received the announcement in perfect good faith. It was some weeks afterwards that Theodora, turning over her mail, came upon a marked copy of the _Intermountain_. "What in the world is this?" she said in astonishment. "I never heard of the paper." She opened it, and then she gasped. Upon the first page appeared a woodcut, evidently culled from the advertising department, and beneath it these headlines: "Interview with Mrs. Theodora Farrington. Alone with Her Tea-Kettle. The Famous Young Author Works by Night. The Inspiration of Genius by the Hob." Theodora read it through, carefully, deliberately, down to the final statements in regard to Browning. She wondered at first. Then the light dawned upon her, as she came upon a carefully-turned phrase descriptive of "the little grey dog, the constant companion of his gifted mistress," and she looked up. "Cis, you wretch!" she said. But Cicely had been watching her face and, as she watched, her own dimples had grown deeper.