"No," I corrected, "we were talking about Fletcher Farrell."

"Then," said Polly with some asperity, "don't change the subject.
Do you know," she went on hurriedly, "that you look like him --like
the pictures of him--as he was."

"Heavens!" I exclaimed, "the man's not dead!"

"You know what I mean," protested Polly. "As he was before he
stopped writing."

"Nor has he stopped writing," I objected; "his books have stopped
selling." Polly turned upon me eagerly.

"Do you know him?" she demanded. I answered with caution that I had
met him.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "tell me about him!"

I was extremely embarrassed. It was a bad place. About myself I
could not say anything pleasant, and behind my back, as it were, I
certainly was not going to say anything unpleasant. But Polly
relieved me of the necessity of saying anything.

"I don't know any man," she exclaimed fervently, "I would so like
to meet!"

It seemed to me that after that the less I said the better. So I
told her something was wrong with the engine and by the time I had
pretended to fix it, I had led the conversation away from Fletcher