as.

Miss Emmeline really spoke well, and her audience was interested in
her, in her theme, and in Hynds House. The Suffragist picked up the
thread where the less gifted woman dropped it, and in simple, living
phrases drove home the great truth of the sisterhood of all women.

Which, of course, called for tea, and some of Mary Magdalen's
cookies. It was the cookies that caught The Author. Coming in from a
long and hungry prowl, he spied Fernolia crossing the hall with a
huge platter, got one tantalizing, mouth-watering odor, and dashed
after her, bent upon robbery. A second later he found himself in a
room full of women. Hyndsville was meeting The Author!

Alicia introduced him, pleasantly. And, "Talk about angels--" said
she, gaily, "We have just this minute stopped talking about the
heathen! And may I give you a cup of tea?"

"And a dozen or so cookies, please. Thank heaven for the heathen!
What is home without the heathen?--Without sugar, Miss Gaines,
without sugar! And for charity's sake, no lemon!"

He sipped his tea and munched his cookies, with his head on one side
and the air of a thievish jackdaw; and proceeded, after his wont, to
extract such pith as the situation offered.

"Doctor Johnson," Miss Martha Hopkins remembered, as she watched him
drinking his fourth cup of tea, "Doctor Johnson was also addicted
to tea-drinking. Most great literary men are, I believe."

"It isn't possible you consider old Johnson a great literary man!"
The Author's eyebrows climbed into his hair.

"Why! wasn't he?" Her eyes widened. She had as much respect for Dr.
Johnson as Miss Deborah Jenkyns had, though of course she never read
him. Life is too short.

"Why! was he?" asked The Author. "Outside of Boswell--and _he_ was a
fool--I've never known anybody who thought he amounted to much."

The Suffragist looked up. "Nelson had his Southey, Boswell had his
Johnson, and Mr. Modern Best-seller may well profit by their
example." And she smiled grimly.

The Author's lip lifted. "Oh, but you couldn't do it!" he purred.
"And if I offered you the job you'd excuse your incapacity on the
ground that there wasn't anything to write about. I know you!" He
took another cooky.

"Yes, I dare say I'd blurt out the truth. Women are like that,"
admitted The Suffragist.

"The female of the species is more deadly than the male," conceded
The Author. "Nevertheless," he raised his tea-cup gallantly, "To the
ladies!" He got up, leisurely. "