were so afraid of me?" He asked eagerly, as one would ask to have a deep
conviction verified.

"You see," she said,--smiling at the manner of his words,--"I did not know
that an author _could_ be so different from the things he writes about."
Then, with a puzzled air--"But why do you write the horrid things that
spoil my music and make me afraid? Why don't you write as you
talk--about--about the mountains? Why don't you make books
like--like"--she seemed to be searching for a word, and smiled with
pleasure when she found it--"like yourself?"

"Listen"--said the novelist impressively, taking refuge in his fanciful
humor--"listen--I'll tell you a secret that must always be for just you
and me--you like secrets don't you?"--anxiously.

She laughed with pleasure--responding instantly to his mood. "Of course I
like secrets."

He nodded approval. "I was sure you did. Now listen--I am not really
Conrad Lagrange, the man who wrote those books that hurt you so--not when
I am here in your rose garden, or when I am listening to your music, or
when I am away up there in your mountains, you know. It is only when I am
in the unclean world that reads and likes my books that I am the man who
wrote them."

Her eyes shone with quick understanding. "Of course," she agreed, "you
_couldn't_ be _that_ kind of a man, and love the music, and like to be
here among the roses or up in the mountains, could you?"

"No, and I'll tell you something else that goes with our secret. Your name