rney and see her safely
installed. The noon hour had struck and the whistles of a few thousand
factories were confirming the announcement, when a vision presented
itself at my door. It was very prettily clad, with a love of a hat and a
most becoming gown, and smiled engagingly. She had fluffy hair and first
rate teeth. Also, she immediately developed a slight lisp that did not
lack attractiveness.

"Mr. Cole!" she exclaimed. "May I come in? I am from the _New York
Banner_. I should like to have you tell me all about your novels and
your impressions of modern literary activities, and something as to your
views upon the war, and----"

She was already in the middle of my room, and I could do no otherwise
than to advance a chair for her.

"Pray take a seat, Miss----"

"I am Cordelia."

"Cordelia!"

"Yes, privately Josie Higgins. I hope that you can give me a photograph
of yourself that we can publish. The public is dying to hear all about
you. I must interview you or die in the attempt, which would be very
inconvenient as I have an appointment to see Gretz at two-thirty, fellow
who killed his mother-in-law. Thanks, I will take the chair. It is
getting quite warm again, isn't it?"

She pulled out a small note book and a business-like pencil from a
frivolous handbag, as my heart sank within me. I shared the feelings of
a small boy haled before the principal of his school. She looked small
and inoffensive, but I knew that pencil of hers to be sharper than the
serpent's tooth. Heavens! She was looking at the slouchy slippers I
still wore and at the bed, yet undone, since I had told the landlady she
might as well have it attended to after my departure. Her eyes wandered
swiftly from the inkspot on the carpet to the bundle of collars and
shirts Eulalie had deposited on my trunk. She also picked up my fragrant
calabash from the desk close at hand and contemplated it, curiously. All
this quick as a flash.

After this, she scrutinized my countenance, with her head cocked a
little to one side, and jotted down something.

"That's good," she declared, apparently much gratified. "I think I know
what you would say, but you had better tell it yourself. For nothing on
earth would I fake an interview, and anyway you look very kind and
obliging. Now tell me how you ever happened to think of 'Land o' Love.'"

"I'm sure I don't know," I answered truthfully.

"Undoubtedly," she acquiesced. "Ideas like that just worm themselves
in