"A what!" he repeated feebly.

"A journalist. I'm on the Hour. This isn't my work as a rule; but
the man who should have come is ill, and his junior can't sketch,
so they sent me! Don't look as though I were a ghost, please.
Haven't you ever heard of a girl journalist before?"

"Never," he answered emphatically. "I didn't know that ladies did
such things!"

She laughed gaily but softly; and Trent understood then what was
meant by the music of a woman's voice.

"Oh, it's not at all an uncommon thing," she answered him. "You
won't mind my interviewing you, will you?"

"Doing what?" he asked blankly.

"Interviewing you! That's what I've come for, you know; and we want
a little sketch of your house for the paper. I know you don't like
it. I hear you've been awfully rude to poor little Morrison of the
Post; but I'll be very careful what I say, and very quick."

He stood looking at her, a dazed and bewildered man. From the trim
little hat, with its white band and jaunty bunch of cornflowers, to
the well-shaped patent shoes, she was neatly and daintily dressed.
A journalist! He gazed once more into her face, at the brown eyes
watching him now a little anxiously, the mouth with the humorous
twitch at the corner of her lips. The little wisps of hair flashed