frankly uppermost, even the most sensitive democrat could hardly have resented it.
"He's a man on a newspaper."
"I see," said the Tenderfoot. But somehow it didn't explain him.
"An old friend, my dear, and he's now the Press, with a capital letter. The other day he interviewed me for his paper."
"How could you let him?" gasped the Tenderfoot.
"For the sake of old times." Suddenly she loosed her famous note. "That little man is in my stars. He dates back to my earliest flapperdom, when my great ambition was to kill him. He was the green-grocer's boy in the next street, and he used to call after me:
"'I am Mary Plantagenet;
Who would imagine it?
Eyes full of liquid fire,
Hair bright as jet;
No one knows my hist'ry,
I am wrapt in myst'ry,
I am the She-ro
Of a penny novelette.'"
"Well, I hope," said the Tenderfoot, "you jolly well lammed into him for such a piece of infernal cheek."
"Yes, I did," she confessed. "One day I turned on him and boxed his ears, and I'm bound to say he's been very respectful ever since. It was very amusing to be reminded of his existence when he turned up the other day. He paid me all sorts of extravagant compliments; he seems to hold himself responsible for any success I may have had."
"Nice of him."
"He says he has written me up for the past two years;
