“My goodness, Sophy, you must have had a terrific headache!” she exclaimed.  “Why, your lips are bloodless, and you’ve black circles under your eyes!”

“I’m all right this morning,” I said, hastily.  “But you look pale, yourself.  Aren’t you rather overdoing things, Leetchy?”

“No:  I’m as sound as a trivet!” said she.  And then:  “Sophy, guess who was here last evening.”  Her eyes began to shine.  “Mrs. Cheshire Scarboro; no less!” And she paused, to let that highly important statement sink in.

Mrs. Cheshire Scarboro was the Leader of the Opposition.  She’d had a lifelong feud with old Sophronisba, who said that when the Lord wanted to try himself out in the way of a fool, He made Cissy Scarboro.  They hated each other as only relations can hate.  Naturally, Mrs. Scarboro resented our presence in Hynds House.  She said Hyndsville ought to show us what it thought of the outrage.  Under her leadership, Hyndsville showed us.

Mrs. Scarboro was a very important person in Hyndsville.  She ruled the older and more conservative portion of it, and although the younger set at times rebelled and went its own way, her power was very real.  That she had changed her mind, or at least her tactics, in regard to us was important news.

“She came with Mr. and Mrs. Haile,” Alicia continued.  “It was the first time she had ever been inside Hynds House.  Think of that, Sophy!  There were some girls here, and a few boys, naturally, Jimmy Scarboro among them.  Should you think that accounted for his mama’s presence, Sophy?  And we sat around like adoring mice, listening to The Author’s sky-rockets going off.  Doctor Geddes wouldn’t let us sing, wouldn’t even let us have music, because you mustn’t be disturbed.  He thinks a whole lot of you, Sophy.”

“I think a whole lot of him.  I never thought I could like that man as much as I do.”

I was determined to show Miss Alicia Gaines that no matter how much, or for whatever reasons she had changed for the worse toward him, I, at least, had changed for the better.  But she listened listlessly.  For which cause, being resentful, I said not one word to her about The Author.

The thought of The Author confused me.  I wasn’t so much flattered as astounded.  He was not offering me a light honor:  The Author’s name meant a great deal.  Who, then, was I, a woman named Smith, to say nay to this miraculous possibility?  Was it not rather for me to accept, meekly, the high gift that the gods in a sportive moment chose to toss to me?  Yea, verily.  And yet—­ My hand stole to the half of a thin old foreign coin hidden in my breast.

The Author behaved with exemplary patience and dignity.  He went about his own work and left me to mine, and though I knew I was under his hawklike watchfulness, his matter-of-fact manner set me at my ease.  You can’t dread to meet a man, of a morning, who pays more attention to his batter-cakes than to you.