“It is curled a little and fluffed a little; that’s what makes it look different,” I told him patiently.

“Then that frock is curled a little and fluffed a little, and that’s what makes it look different, too,” The Author decided, and stared at me critically.  “You are improving,” he told me, with condescension.

“You are not!” I was goaded to reply.

The Author merely grinned.

“Do you know,” he asked, “if that man Jelnik is coming to-night?  I hope so.  Unusual man.  Can’t think why he buries himself here!  Our old friend Gatchell doesn’t seem to admire him.  I wonder why?”

“I can’t possibly imagine,” I replied equably, “unless it is that the judge grows old.”

“Hah!” The Author’s eyebrows went up truculently.  “And is it a sign of advancing age and mental decrepitude not to admire this fellow?”

But I laughed at him.

“You’re all alike, you women.”  A wicked light snapped into his eyes.  “Hear, dear lady, the Bard of the Congaree, the Poet Laureate of South Carolina, Coogle for your benefit,” hissed The Author, and repeated, balefully: 

          Alas, poor woman, with eyes of sparkling fire,
          Thy heart is often won by mankind’s gay attire! 
          So weak thou art, so very weak at best,
          Thou canst not look beyond a satin-lined vest!

          I’ve seen thee ofttimes cast a-winning glance,
          And be carried away, as it were within a trance,
          By the gay apparel of some dishonest youth
          Whose bosom heaved with not a single truth!

He was so outrageously funny that I forgave his impertinence.  His face relaxed, and his eyes twinkled.  He was in high feather the remainder of the evening.  He was, in fact, so good-humoredly witty that the boys and girls Alicia had brought home clustered about him like golden bees.

“Miss Smith,” whispered Miss Emmeline, under cover of their laughter, “may I have a word with you?”

We drifted into the library; and she seated herself, folded her hands, and said tremulously: 

“My dear, my wish has been granted.  I have really come in contact with the Unknown!  I have seen something, Miss Smith!” I looked at her steadily.  “Just before dawn,” Miss Emmeline continued, “I woke up, with a curious, indefinable, uneasy sense of trouble, as if something had happened and I was remembering it, say.  I saw how foolish it was to allow a mere nightmare to worry me, though I am not subject to nightmares, my conscience and my digestion being quite all right, thank heaven!  Gradually the impression faded.  I was just dropping to sleep again, when I heard the faintest imaginable footfall, almost as if somebody were walking upon the air itself.  And then, Miss Smith, there stole across my room a figure.  There was nothing terrifying about it:  it was merely a figure, that was all, and so I was not frightened.  It came from my clothes-closet, went into the next room, and vanished.  For when I arose and followed, there was no trace of it.  And the doors were locked.  Now, was not that remarkable?”