creation last year. I'm afraid it doesn't fit
very well." He smiled from out of the light of a sudden lamp-post.
"You'll find a birch footstool some day pretty soon. I noticed your feet
didn't reach. By the way," he broke off, "pardon me for quoting from
you, but _I_ don't think back-season debutantes are like out-of-demand
best-sellers--not all of them. Anyhow, all best-sellers do not
deteriorate. And tell me, is this chap with the deep-purring car the
villain or the hero in your novel--the dark one with the hair blown
straight back?"

I almost stopped in my amazement. He was quoting from my life history.

"I don't understand," I began. I could feel the color in my cheeks. "I
dislike mystery. Tell me. Please. How did you--I dislike mystery," I
repeated.

"Are you angry? It's so dark I can't see. Don't be angry. It was
written on theme paper, in pencil, and in a university town theme
paper is public property. I found them there one day--just two loose
leaves behind the seat--and I read them. Afterwards I saw you--not
until afterwards," he assured me, "writing there every day. I asked
to be introduced to you when I saw you tucked away in a corner there
this afternoon drinking tea behind a fern, so that I could return
your property."

"Oh, you've kept the leaves! Where are they?" I demanded.

"Right here. Wait a minute." And underneath an arc-light we stopped,
and from out of his breast-pocket this surprising man drew a leather
case, and from out of that two crumpled pages of my life. "If any one
should ask me to guess," he went on, "I should say that the author of
these fragments is a student at Shirley" (the girls' college connected
with the University) "and that she had strolled out to my woods for
inspiration to write a story for an English course. Am I right?" He
passed me the leaves. "It sounds promising," he added, "the story,
I mean."

I took the leaves and glanced through them. There wasn't a name
mentioned on either. "A student at Shirley!" I exclaimed. "How
perfectly ridiculous! A school girl! Well, how old do you think
I am?" and out of sheer relief I rippled into a laugh.

"I don't know," he replied. "How old are you?" And he laughed, too. The
sound of our merriment mixing so rhythmically was music to my ears. I
thought I had forgotten how to be foolish, and inconsequential.

"I don't know why it strikes me so funny," I tried to explain--for
really I felt fairly elated--"I don't know why, but a stor