"What is it?" she asked with alacrity. "Nothing very pleasant, for I shall have to send you out in this storm. I've just taken Will down to Joe Everard's to spend the morning, and I promised to call for him, this noon. When I came back, I found a note from Mrs. Keith, asking me to come to lunch, to meet one of our California cousins. Do you feel as if you could go down in the carriage and come back with Will? I hate to have him alone, in case anything happens." Theodora laughed contentedly. "What an idea! Of course I'll go. I always love to drive, you know. Where's the place?" "Away down town, near Washington Square. You'd better go right down Fifth Avenue. I'll dress, then, and go to Mrs. Keith's; and then send the carriage back for you, if you'll be ready." Theodora went back to her writing, and the moments slid away only too rapidly. Whatever was the result of her labors, she enjoyed them keenly. All through the winter, though Phebe scolded and Allyn teased and the world about her went awry, she had been able to forget it all in the adventures of her imaginary friends, the tale of whose doings had come to be bulky and dog's-eared from frequent readings. She was still busy over her work, when Patrick came to the door. "The carriage is here, Miss Theodora." She quickly put on her hat and coat. Patrick banged the carriage door behind her and mounted the box beside the driver, and they drove away. It was the first time she had driven out in solitary splendor, and Theodora felt very dignified and luxurious as she leaned back on the cushions and idly watched the passing show which had grown so familiar to her during the past two weeks. When they came to the lower end of the Avenue, she sat up in quick attention, for she was passing window after window full of books spread out in enticing array, and above the doorways she read on the gilded signs the names which she had learned to know were on the titlepages of the books within. At the sight, there came into her mind a sudden recollection of her well-worn manuscript at home, and of the tales she had read of young writers who had made their way into the publisher's presence. With an impulsive movement, she tapped sharply on the window. "Stop, please," she said. "On this side." Obediently the driver drew up opposite the doorway of a firm of international fame, and Theodora, secure in the consciousness of her new gown and the unwonted luxury of the carriage and Patrick, entered the store. It was a dreary day of a dull season, and with comparatively little trouble she found herself in a quiet office on the third floor of the building. Its occupant, a tall, thin man with iron-gray hair, looked up at her approach, and a slight expression of wonder came into his eyes as they rested on his girlish visitor. "What can I do for you?" he asked courteously. Theodora was breathing a little quickly, and the bright color came and went in her cheeks. All unconsciously, she was looking her very best.