spun sugar basket. Mrs. Carey is extremely sorry
She was ready to go out at last, in the red-and-black car, so small, so smart, looking as if one wound it up with a key, with Bates seeming so a part of it that one almost expected to see a tiny crack running down his front, splitting a black tin cap and a pink tin nose, one felt that an iron tail must run into a hole in the seat, to keep him steady.
Buying her own books, she thought, how excited this little person would be if he knew I was the author! She felt like a queen incognito.
"Did I understand you to say twelve copies of O Fair Dove? Is that correct?"
And she answered, graciously, laughingly:
"Alas, yes! That's the penalty of writing a book, so many people expect the poor author to give them copies!"
His eyes and his mouth were three round O's, she thought, walking up Fifth Avenue, amused and touched. Well, that was a real thrill in
