What could I say
to Marguerite Andrews if I ever met her in real life? How could I
look her in the eye? The situation overpowered me, and I hardly knew
what to say. I couldn't beg Harley to stick to his realism and not
indulge in compulsion, because I had often jeered at him for not
infusing a little more of the dramatic into his stories, even if it
had to be "lugged in by the ears," as he put it. Nor was he in any
mood for me to tell him of my breach of faith--the mere knowledge
that she had promised to be docile out of charity would have stung
his pride, and I thought it would be better, for the time, at least,
to let my interview remain a secret. Fortune favored me, however.
Kelly and the Professor entered the dining room at this moment, and
the Professor held in his hand a copy of the current issue of The
Literary Man, Messrs. Herring, Beemer, & Chadwick's fortnightly
publication, a periodical having to do wholly with things bookish.
"Who sat for this, Stuart?" called out the Professor, tapping the
frontispiece of the magazine.
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