As if in answer to his smile, Deborah pushed back her chair from the little writing-table, and picking up the loose sheets of her manuscript, heaved a very audible sigh of relief.
Then the room rustled. Her husband looked upon her with a quizzical eye; Major Macdonald beat the ashes from his cigar, and looked up; some of the others clapped hands; while pretty Mrs. Barnes went to lean upon her friend's shoulder.
'Finished, Mrs. Hayden?' asked a chorus of voices.
'Just a little story,' she answered, smiling upon them, 'for next week's Clarion. I hope I did not keep you all silent, but the inspiration came to me. And I thought I would not go to my room, but write it here.'
'I am so glad you did so,' pleaded Mrs. Barnes, raising her big eyes with an entreating glance. 'I just love literary people, and only meet them at Mrs. Davison's delightful house-parties. It was so good of you to let me see you write. Please read us the story.'
'It is so late,' said Mrs. Hayden, much gratified. 'It was very good of you to wait for me, dear. I think we had better retire now, for I am
