“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.”

“Upon my word, Mr. Allen, I am disgusted with you,” said the second voice; “I have not found a man yet who would speak a good word for him.  But I did not think it of you.”

A woman’s tongue, like a firearm, is a dangerous weapon, and often strikes where it is least expected.  I saw with a wicked delight that the shot had told, for the Celebrity blushed to the roots of his hair, while Miss Trevor dropped three or four stitches.

“I do not see how you can expect men to like ’The Sybarites’,” she said, with some heat; “very few men realize or care to realize what a small chance the average woman has.  I know marriage isn’t a necessary goal, but most women, as well as most men, look forward to it at some time of life, and, as a rule, a woman is forced to take her choice of the two or three men that offer themselves, no matter what they are.  I admire a man who takes up the cudgels for women, as he has done.”

“Of course we admire him,” they cried, as soon as Miss Trevor had stopped for breath.

“And can you expect a man to like a book which admits that women are the more constant?” she went on.

“Why, Irene, you are quite rabid on the subject,” said the second voice; “I did not say I expected it.  I only said I had hoped to find Mr. Allen, at least, broad enough to agree with the book.”

“Doesn’t Mr. Allen remind you a little of Desmond?” asked the first voice, evidently anxious to avoid trouble.