“People never consider an author apart from his work, you know, and I confess I had a desire to find out how I would get along.  And there comes a time when a man wishes he had never written a book, and a longing to be sought after for his own sake and to be judged on his own merits.  And then it is a great relief to feel that one is not at the beck and call of any one and every one wherever one goes, and to know that one is free to choose one’s own companions and do as one wishes.”

“The sentiment is good,” Miss Thorn agreed, “very good.  But doesn’t it seem a little odd, Mr. Crocker,” she continued, appealing to me, “that a man should take the pains to advertise a trip to Europe in order to gratify a whim of this sort?”

“It is indeed incomprehensible to me,” I replied, with a kind of grim pleasure, “but you must remember that I have always led a commonplace existence.”

Although the Celebrity was almost impervious to sarcasm, he was now beginning to exhibit visible signs of uneasiness, the consciousness dawning upon him that his eccentricity was not receiving the ovation it merited.  It was with a palpable relief that he heard the first warning notes of the figure.

“Am I to understand that you wish me to do my part in concealing your identity?” asked Miss Thorn, cutting him short as he was expressing pleasure at her arrival.

“If you will be so kind,” he answered, and departed with a bow.  There was a mischievous mirth in her eye as she took her place in the window.  Below in the ball-room sat Miss Trevor surrounded by men, and I saw her face lighting at the Celebrity’s approach.

“Who is that beautiful girl he is dancing with?” said Miss Thorn.

I told her.

“Have you read his books?” she asked, after a pause.

“Some of them.”

“So have I.”

The Celebrity was not mentioned again that evening.

CHAPTER VI

As an endeavor to unite Mohair and Asquith the cotillon had proved a dismal failure.  They were as the clay and the brass.  The next morning Asquith was split into factions and rent by civil strife, and the porch of the inn was covered by little knots of women, all trying to talk at once; their faces told an ominous tale.  Not a man was to be seen.  The Minneapolis, St. Paul, and Chicago papers, all of which had previously contained elaborate illustrated accounts of Mr. Cooke’s palatial park and residence, came out that morning bristling with headlines about the ball, incidentally holding up the residents of a quiet and retiring little community in a light that scandalized them beyond measure.  And Mr. Charles Wrexell Allen, treasurer of the widely known Miles Standish Bicycle Company, was said to have led the cotillon in a manner that left nothing to be desired.

So it was this gentleman whom the Celebrity was personating!  A queer whim indeed.