than a woman's boudoir. Books lined the walls. The furniture was strong
and plain. At the window, on a swivel-chair before a roll-top desk,
Mrs. Porter sat writing, her back to the door.

"The gentleman, ma'am," announced the maid.

"Sit down," said his aunt, without looking round or ceasing to write.

The maid went out. Bailey sat down. The gentle squeak of the quill pen
continued.

Bailey coughed.

"I have called this morning----"

The left hand of the writer rose and waggled itself irritably above her
left shoulder.

"Aunt Lora," spoke Bailey sternly.

"Shish!" said the authoress. Only that and nothing more. Bailey,
outraged, relapsed into silence. The pen squeaked on.

After what seemed to Bailey a considerable time, the writing ceased. It
was succeeded by the sound of paper vigorously blotted. Then, with
startling suddenness, Mrs. Porter whirled round on the swivel-chair,
tilted it back, and faced him.

"Well, Bailey?" she said.