the author of that charming story ‘Evelyn’s Error.’”
The room was clear of tobacco smoke—the editor was alone—some red roses lay on the table. Kitty caught herself wondering for whom he had bought them. The chair he offered her was carefully dusted. She took it—and he began to talk about her story; criticising, praising, blaming, and that so skilfully that criticism seemed a subtle flattery, and the very blame conveyed a compliment. Then he asked for more stories. And a new heaven and a new earth seemed to unroll before the girl’s eyes. If she could only write—and succeed—and
“Will you come again?” he said at last. “Aunt Kate”
“Oh,” she said, with eyes shining softly, “it doesn’t matter about Aunt Kate now! I shall be so busy trying to write stories.”
“The fact is” said the editor slowly, racking his brains for a reason that should bring her to the office again—“the fact is—I am Aunt Kate.”
Kitty sprang to her feet. Her face flamed scarlet. She stood silent a moment. Then: “You?” she cried. “Oh, it’s not fair—it’s mean—it’s shameful! Oh—how could you!
