altogether too busy to give much thought to the incident, for he was in
the middle of another novel that must be ready for the public before
_The Insurgent_ was forgotten.

He was yet to learn the real meaning of publicity. First there appeared
an old friend, one who should have understood him too well to put faith
in such an absurdity.

"Say, Deck, you've simply got to dine with us Thursday night. My wife
insists. She wants you to meet a cousin of hers--Denver girl, mighty
bright, and"--this impressively--"she has gray eyes, you know."

Decatur grinned appreciatively, but he begged off. He was really very
sorry to miss a gray-eyed girl, of course, but there was his work.

One by one his other friends had their little shy at him. Mayhew sent by
messenger a huge placard reading, "Wanted, A Wife." Trevors called him
up by telephone to advise him to see _Jupiter Belles_ at once.

"Get a seat in A," he chuckled, "and take a good look at the third from
the left, first row. She has gray eyes."

By the time he received Tiddler's atrocious sketch, representing the
author of _The Insurgent_ as a Diogenes looking for gray-eyed girls, he
had ceased to smile over the thing. The joke was becoming a trifle
stale.

Then the letters began to come in, post-marked from all over the
country. They were all from young persons who had read _The Insurgent_,
and evidently the interview; for, no matter what else was said, each