"Yes--all of them read your books," she replied, looking straight into his
face. "And I guess--in many ways--you have pointed out things that are
true."

It was his turn to show surprise.

"You believe that?"

"I do. More than that--I have always thought that I knew your secret--the
big, hidden thing under your work, the thing which you do not reveal
because you know the world would laugh at you. And so--_you despise me!_"

"Not you."

"I am a woman."

He laughed. The tan in his cheeks burned a deeper red.

"We are wasting time," he warned her. "In Bill's place I heard you say you
were going to leave on the Tête Jaune train. I am going to take you to a
real dinner. And now--I should let those good people know your name."

A moment--unflinching and steady--she looked into his face.

"It is Joanne, the name you have made famous as the dreadfulest woman in
fiction. Joanne Gray."

"I am sorry," he said, and bowed low. "Come. If I am not mistaken I smell
new-baked bread."