“No, private,” she giggled.

“Will it take you away much?” Jarvis asked her.

“Oh, I’ll go to New York occasionally.”

“It is to be a secret, I take it?” the Professor said.

“It is, old Sherlock Holmes.”

They slipped back into their routine of life as if it had never been broken.  Jarvis, after two perturbed days of restlessness, went into a work fit over a new play.  The Professor was busy with final examinations, so Bambi was left alone with plenty of leisure in which to do her next story.

She wisely decided to write herself—­in other words, to dramatize her own experiences, to draw on her emotions, her own views of life.  She must leave it to Jarvis to rouse and stir people.  She would be content to amuse and charm them.  So she boldly called her tale by her own name, “Francesca,” and she shamelessly introduced the Professor and Jarvis, with a thin disguise, and chortled over their true likeness after she had dipped them in the solution of her imagination.  She relied on the fact that neither of them ever looked between the covers of a magazine.  Besides, even if they chanced upon the story, they would never recognize their own portraits.

[Illustration:  Her tale had the place of honour and was illustrated by James Montgomery Flagg, the supreme desire of every young writer.]

A few days before the prize story was published, a special copy came to her from Mr. Strong.  She hid it until the “Twins” were gone.  Then she hurried out to the piazza and the hammock with it.  It was a thrilling moment.  “Prize Story by a Wonderful New Writer” stared up at her from the front page.  Her tale had the place of honour in the makeup, and it was illustrated—­double-page illustrations—­by James Montgomery Flagg, the supreme desire of every young writer.  She hugged the magazine.  She scanned it over and over.  She laid it on the table, picked it up casually, and turned to the first story indifferently, just to squeeze the full joy out of it.  Then she pounded a pile of pillows into shape, drew her feet up under her, and began to read her own work.  She smiled a good deal, she chuckled, finally she laughed outright, hugging herself.  At this unfortunate moment Jarvis appeared.  She looked as guilty as a detected criminal.

“What’s the joke?”

“Oh, I was laughing at a story in here.”

“How can you read that trash?”

“It isn’t trash.  It’s perfectly delightful.”

“What is it?” He came nearer to her, and she clutched the magazine tightly.

“Oh, just a prize story.”

“A prize story?  And funny enough to make you laugh?  Not O. Henry?”

“Of course not.  He’s dead.  A new writer, it says.”

He held out his hands for it, and, perforce, she resigned it to him.