ad no idea that she had written it?"

"No."

"Have you read it?"

"Yes."

"What do you think of it? I almost never read novels but I suppose I
must tackle that one. Did you like it?"

"Quite well," said Annie.

"Tell me what is it all about?"

Annie could endure no more. "It will spoil the book for you if I tell
you, Mr. von Rosen," said she, and her voice was at once firm and
piteous. She could not tell the story of her own book to him. She
would be as deceitful as poor Margaret, for all the time he would
think she was talking of Margaret's work and not of her own.

Von Rosen laughed. After all he cared very little indeed about the
book. He had what he cared for: a walk home with this very sweet and
very natural girl, who did not seem to care whether he walked home
with her or not.

"I dare say you are right," he said, "but I doubt if your telling me
about it would spoil the book for me, because it is more than
probable that I shall never read it after all. I may if it comes in
my way because I was somewhat surprised. I had never thought of Mrs.
Edes as that sort of person. However, so many novels are written
nowadays, and some mighty queer ones are successful that I presume I
should not be surprised. Anybody in Fairbridge might be the author of
a successful novel. You might, Miss Eustace, for all I know."

Annie said nothing.

"Perhaps you are," said Von Rosen. He had not the least idea of the
thinness of the ice. Annie trembled. Her truthfulness was as her
life. She hated even evasions. Luckily Von Rosen was so far from
suspicion that he did not wait for an answer.

"Mrs. Edes reads well," he said.

"Very well indeed," returned Annie eagerly.

"I suppose an author can read more understandingly from her own
work," said Von Rosen. "Don't you think so, Miss Eustace?"

"I think she might," said Annie.

"I don't know but I shall read that book after all," said Von Rosen.
"I rather liked that extract she gave us. It struck me as out of the
common run of women's books. I beg your pardon, Miss Eustace. If you
were a writer yourself I could not speak so, but you are not, and you
must know as well as I do, that many of the books written by women
are simply sloughs of oversweetened sentiment, and of entirely
innocent immorality. But that chapter did not sound as if it could
belong to such a book. It sounded altogether too logical for the
average woman writer. I think I will read it. Then after I have read