her handkerchief in an effort to capture his attention. Now she was smiling. He wondered why all the creatures smiled so continuously until he recalled the line about killing with a kiss.
At this juncture all rules of etiquette deserted him. He did not rise. He would have been incapable of this politeness at the moment had his visitor been the Queen of England and himself an ardent royalist. The lady, however, had not appeared to take any notice of his odd conduct. She had announced at once that she had been informed that he was the great author Ambrose Deacon whom she had admired for years. She had read all his stories and while she had not as yet seen his play—her residence in Kansas City had up to the present made this impractical—she had devoured the reviews and she had devoted an especial attention to the interviews which had hailed him as a new mystic. She had, it appeared, no kind or manner of doubt but that he was her oyster.
Her expression was so intent as she slipped into the seat opposite him—they all did this with no suggestion of hesitation—that at first he was fearful of a physical attack and accordingly was almost relieved to discover what she really required of him.
She had, he learned, always been assured that she was beautiful. Everybody in Kansas City knew
