rk, 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.

"I do not see how you can expect men to like 'The Sybarites'," she said,
with some heat; "very few men realize or care to realize what a small
chance the average woman has. I know marriage isn't a necessary goal,
but most women, as well as most men, look forward to it at some time of
life, and, as a rule, a woman is forced to take her choice of the two or
three men that offer themselves, no matter what they are. I admire a man
who takes up the cudgels for women, as he has done."

"Of course we admire him," they cried, as soon as Miss Trevor had stopped
for breath.

"And can you expect a man to like a book which admits that women are the
more constant?" she went on.

"Why, Irene, you are quite rabid on the subject," said the second voice;
"I did not say I expected it. I only said I had hoped to find Mr. Allen,
at least, broad enough to agree with the book."

"Doesn't Mr. Allen remind you a little of Desmond?" asked the first
voice, evidently anxious to avoid trouble.

"Do you know whom he took for Desmond, Mr. Allen? I have an idea it was
himself."

Mr. Allen, had now recovered some of his composure.

"If so, it was done unconsciously," he said. "I suppose an author must
put his best thoughts in the mouth of his hero."

"But it is like him?" she insisted.

"Yes, he holds the same views."

"Which you do not agree with."

"I have not said I did not agree with them," he repli