"He is, girls," Miss Trevor interposed; "I have seen his photograph."

"What does he look like, Irene?" they chorused. "Men are no judges."

"He is tall, and dark, and broad-shouldered," Miss Trevor enumerated,
as though counting her stitches, "and he has a very firm chin, and a
straight nose, and--"

"Perfect!" they cried. "I had an idea he was just like that. I should
go wild about him. Does he talk as well as he writes, Mr. Allen?"

"That is admitting that he writes well."

"Admitting?" they shouted scornfully, "and don't you admit it?"

"Some people like his writing, I have to confess," said the Celebrity,
with becoming calmness; "certainly his personality could not sell an
edition of thirty thousand in a month. I think 'The Sybarites' the best
of his works."

"Upon my word, Mr. Allen, I am disgusted with you," said the second
voice; "I have not found a man yet who would speak a good word for him.
But I did not think it of you."

A woman's tongue, like a firearm, is a dangerous weapon, and often
strikes where it is least expected. I saw with a wicked delight that the
shot had told, for the Celebrity blushed to the roots of his hair, while
Miss Trevor dropped three or four stitches.