was the threshold over which he would step into the world of achievement and fame.
The door opened and a young woman entered so quietly that she was almost at Eden's side before he was aware of her presence.
"Oh," he said, starting, "I beg your pardon. I'm waiting to see Mr. Cory."
"You are Mr. Whiteoak, aren't you?" she asked in a tranquil voice.
He flushed red, very boyishly, under his tan.
"Yes. I'm Eden Whiteoak. I'm the—"
Just in time he choked back what he had been about to say: that he was the author of Under the North Star. It would have been a horrible way to introduce himself—just as though he had expected the whole world to know about his book of poems.
However, she said, with a little excited catch of the breath:—
"Oh, Mr. Whiteoak, I could not resist coming to speak to you when I heard you were here. I want to tell you how very, very much I have enjoyed your poems. I am a reader for Mr. Cory, and he generally gives me the poetry manuscripts, because—well, I am very much interested in poetry."
"Yes, yes, I see," said Eden, casting about to collect his thoughts.
She went on in her low even voice:—
"I cannot tell you how proud I was when I was able to recommend your poems to him. I have to send in adverse reports on so many. Your name was new to us. I felt that I had discovered you. Oh, dear, this is very unbusinesslike, telling you all this, but your poetry has given me so much pleasure that—I wanted you to know."
Her face flashed suddenly from gravity into smiling.
