-why, you silly girl, you are actually
trembling! He is nearly as stout as I am, and much more good-natured,
and you're not afraid of me. Now, come along."

She opened a door without knocking and put in her head.

"Hugh," she said, in as bland a tone as she could call up, "I have
brought a lady to interview you for the _Evening Mail_. I have assured
her you will not object. Well, I shall see you again in half an hour,
Miss Bibby."

And Miss Bibby felt herself pushed gently into the study of Hugh
Kinross, and all retreat cut off behind her by the silent closing of the
door.

CHAPTER IX

THE INTERVIEW FOR THE "EVENING MAIL"

Kate could hardly have chosen a more inopportune moment. The hero, who
had troubled Hugh's repose in the moist atmosphere of the city,
persisted in behaving in an untoward fashion, even when translated to an
altitude of three thousand feet or so. He still perorated, still posed
like a shop-walker, still behaved like a puppet, with its pulling
strings in plainest evidence.

It was a mercilessly hot afternoon. All over the mountains the tourists
were asking themselves in bitterness of spirit why they had left their
comfortable homes in the city to subject themselves to weather like
this. They all had the feeling of being wronged out of their money; the
hotel-keepers, the house-agents, had lured them here under false
pretences, and positively deserved punishment.

The sweat of heat and mental exertion poured down Hugh's face. He had
followed his usual plan of work this year, that of drifting pleasantly
along for nine months, jotting down a few notes, and writing a chapter
now and again; and then pulling himself sharply together, and trying to
work like a horse, and get all his ideas reduced to paper, corrected,
re-written, and made ready for Kate to type in three months. Every New
Year's Day he sat with Kate and mapped out a plan of work for the fresh
year, that was to be utterly dissimilar to this reprehensible practice.
Sometimes they got paper, and planned out each month's work, so many
chapters to the month; it was surprising how simple it all looked, put
down like that. For instance, one book a year, when a year consisted of
three hundred and sixty-five days, was not too much to expect from a
moderately active man in full possession of his health and faculties.
One book a year represented say, thirty chapters, sixty or seventy
thousand words. Seventy thousand words, divided by thre