Interviewer the next time she met him at the Library, which happened
soon after the meeting when his paper was read.

"I do not know," she said, in the course of a conversation in which she
had spoken warmly of his contribution to the literary entertainment of
the Society, "that you mentioned the name of the Literary Celebrity whom
you interviewed so successfully."

"I did not mention him, Miss Vincent," he answered, "nor do I think it
worth while to name him. He might not care to have the whole story told
of how he was handled so as to make him communicative. Besides, if I
did, it would bring him a new batch of sympathetic letters, regretting
that he was bothered by those horrid correspondents, full of indignation
at the bores who presumed to intrude upon him with their pages of
trash, all the writers of which would expect answers to their letters of
condolence."

The Secretary asked the Interviewer if he knew the young gentleman who
called himself Maurice Kirkwood.

"What," he answered, "the man that paddles a birch canoe, and rides all
the wild horses of the neighborhood? No, I don't know him, but I have
met him once or twice, out walking. A mighty shy fellow, they tell me.
Do you know anything particular about him?"

"Not much. None of us do, but we should like to. The story is that he
has a queer antipathy to something or to somebody, nobody knows what or
whom."

"To newspaper correspondents, perhaps," said the interviewer. "What made
you ask me about him? You did n't think he was my 'Literary Celebrity,'
did you?"

"I did not know. I thought he might be. Why don't you interview this
mysterious personage? He would make a good sensation for your paper, I
should think."

"Why, what is there to be interviewed in him? Is there any story
of crime, or anything else to spice a column or so, or even a
few paragraphs, with? If there is, I am willing to handle him
professionally."

"I told you he has what they call an antipathy. I don't know how much
wiser you are for that piece of information."

"An antipathy! Why, so have I an antipathy. I hate a spider, and as for
a naked caterpillar,--I believe I should go into a fit if I had to
touch one. I know I turn pale at the sight of some of those great green
caterpillars that come down from the elm-trees in August and early
autumn."

"Afraid of them?" asked the young lady.

"Afraid? What should I be afraid of? They can't bite or sting. I can't
give any reason.