floundered to a stop. There were only two things within his
power to do: he had either to cough or to speak much too
sweetly.

"There's a draught here," she said, Christian anxiety roused by
the paroxysm which rescued him from the damning alternative.
"You oughtn't to stand here perhaps, Mr. Canby."

"'Canby?'" he repeated inquiringly, the name seeming new to him.
"Canby?"

"You're Mr. Canby, aren't you?"

"I meant where--who--" he stammered. "How did you know?"

The stage-manager pointed you out to me yesterday at rehearsal.
I was so excited! You're the first author I ever saw, you see.
I've been in stock where we don't see authors."

"Do you--like it?" he said. "I mean stock. Do you like stock?
How much do you like stock? I ah--" Again he fell back upon the
faithful old device of nervous people since the world began.

"I'm sure you oughtn't to stand in this passageway," she urged.

"No, no!" he said hurriedly. "I love it! I love it! I haven't
any cold. It's the air. That's what does it." He nodded
brightly, with the expression of a man who knows the answer to
everything. "It's bad for me."