But his choice of the name of Charles Wrexell Allen bothered me considerably.  I finally decided that he had taken it because convenient, and because he believed Asquith to be more remote from the East than the Sandwich Islands.

Reaching the inn grounds, I climbed the hillside to a favorite haunt of mine, a huge boulder having a sloping back covered with soft turf.  Hence I could watch indifferently both lake and sky.  Presently, however, I was aroused by voices at the foot of the rock, and peering over the edge I discovered a kind of sewing-circle gathered there.  The foliage hid me completely.  I perceived the Celebrity perched upon the low branch of an apple-tree, and Miss Trevor below him, with two other girls, doing fancy-work.  I shall not attempt to defend the morality of my action, but I could not get away without discovery, and the knowledge that I had heard a part of their conversation might prove disquieting to them.

The Celebrity had just published a book, under the title of ’The Sybarites’, which was being everywhere discussed; and Asquith, where summer reading was general, came in for its share of the debate.  Why it was called The Sybarites I have never discovered.  I did not read the book because I was sick and tired of the author and his nonsense, but I imbibed, in spite of myself, something of the story and its moral from hearing it talked about.  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.  I think ‘The Sybarites’ the best of his works.”