There was a short delay while she sped upstairs, ransacked Theodora’s closet for a long skirt, and swiftly coiled her hair on the top of her head.  Then demurely enough she presented herself to the waiting guest.

“Mrs. Farrington?” he said interrogatively, as he rose.

“Good-afternoon,” she answered, extending her hand graciously.  “Won’t you be seated?”

He looked surprised.  As a rule, the reception accorded to him was not so cordial.

“I came here on behalf of the Boston Intermountain,” he said a little uneasily.  “They are making up a Thanksgiving number, and are anxious for a special feature or two.  Among other things, they want a little sketch of your work and your ways of doing it.”

“Certainly.”  Cicely seated herself on the sofa and smiled encouragement at the young man, while she vaguely wondered whether he had discovered that her cousin’s waist measure was three inches smaller than her own.

“Might I ask,” he inquired, as he pulled out a notebook; “whether you are busy just now on a new book?”

“Yes, I am writing four at present,” she answered unexpectedly.

“Four, all at once?”

“Yes.”

“But—­pardon me—­but is there not danger of confusing them?”

“Oh, no; I keep them in different pigeon-holes,” Cicely replied blandly.

“Ah, yes.  Do you?  Very good!” He laughed a little vaguely.  “Are they to come out soon?”

“This winter, all but one.  That will not appear for seven years.”

“Indeed.  And are you willing, Mrs. Farrington to tell me when you do your writing?”

“Certainly.  I do it all at night.”

“But isn’t that very wearing?”

“Of course.  I am often a total wreck for months after finishing a book.”

“Where do you do your writing?”

For a moment, Cicely hesitated between the rival charms of the front steps and the attic.  Then she replied,—­

“In the kitchen.”

“The—­kitchen!” For an instant, the man was thrown from his professional calm.

“Yes.  I put my little kettle of tea to draw on the hob—­”

“The—­what?”

“The hob,” Cicely said severely; “and when I am tired of writing, I refresh myself with a cup of Flowery Pekoe and a biscuit, and then I return to my pen once more.”

“How much do you usually accomplish in a night?”

“Four thousand, five hundred words is my usual limit.”

“And do your never write during the day?”

“Never.  My thoughts only arise by candle-light.”

At this poetic outburst, the interviewer glanced up and privately registered the belief that Mrs. Farrington was slightly cracked.

“I always sleep till noon,” Cicely reassured him.  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, thank you.  I think not.  This will make a very interesting and acceptable article, I am sure.  But, before I go, would you mind telling me what you think of Browning?”