you,” he said. “It's the heat. I get an attack like this sometimes. Yes, I'm Mr. Trent. I don't know what you're doing here, but you're welcome.”
“How nice of you to say so!” she answered brightly. “But then perhaps you'll change your mind when you know what I have been doing.”
He laughed shortly.
“Nothing terrible, I should say. Looks as though you've been making a picture of my house; I don't mind that.”
She dived in her pocket and produced a card-case.
“I'll make full confession,” she said frankly. “I'm a journalist.”
“A what!” he repeated feebly.
“A journalist. I'm on the Hour. This isn't my work as a rule; but the man who should have come is ill, and his junior can't sketch, so they sent me! Don't look as though I were a ghost, please. Haven't you ever heard of a girl journalist before?”
“Never,” he answered emphatically. “I didn't know that ladies did such things!”
She laughed gaily but softly; and Trent understood then what was meant by the music of a woman's voice.
“Oh, it's not at all an uncommon thing,” she answered him. “You won't mind my interviewing you, will you?”
“Doing what?” he asked blankly.
“Interviewing you! That's what I've come for, you know; and we want a little sketch of your house for the paper. I know you don't like it. I hear you've been awfully rude to poor little Morrison of the Post; but I'll be very careful what I say, and very quick.”
He stood looking at her, a dazed and bewildered man. From the trim little hat, with its white band and jaunty bunch of cornflowers, to the well-shaped patent shoes, she was neatly and daintily dressed. A journalist! He gazed once more into her face, at the brown eyes watching him now a little anxiously, the mouth with the humorous twitch at the corner of her lips. The little wisps of hair flashed again in the sunlight. It was she! He had found her.
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