The Celebrity himself had listened to arguments
on the subject with great serenity, and was nothing loth to give his
opinion when appealed to. I realized at once that 'The Sybarites' was
the present topic.
"Yes, it is rather an uncommon book," he was saying languidly, "but there
is no use writing a story unless it is uncommon."
"Dear, how I should like to meet the author!" exclaimed a voice.
"He must be a charming man, and so young, too! I believe you said
you knew him, Mr. Allen."
"An old acquaintance," he answered, "and I am always reminding him that
his work is overestimated."
"How can you say he is overestimated!" said a voice.
"You men are all jealous of him," said another.
"Is he handsome? I have heard he is."
"He would scarcely be called so," said the Celebrity, doubtfully.
"He is, girls," Miss Trevor interposed; "I have seen his photograph."
"What does he look like, Irene?" they chorused. "Men are no judges."
"He is tall, and dark, and broad-shouldered," Miss Trevor enumerated,
as though counting her stitches, "and he has a very firm chin, and a
straight nose, and--"
"Perfect!" they cried. "I had an idea he was just like that. I should
go wild about him. Does he talk as well as he writes, Mr. Allen?"
"That is admitting that he writes well."
"Admitting?" they shouted scornfully, "and don't you admit it?"
"Some people like his writing, I have to confess," said the Celebrity,
with becoming calmness; "certainly his personality could not sell an
edition of thirty thousand in a month.
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