“It isn’t trash. It’s perfectly delightful.”
“What is it?” He came nearer to her, and she clutched the magazine tightly.
“Oh, just a prize story.”
“A prize story? And funny enough to make you laugh? Not O. Henry?”
“Of course not. He’s dead. A new writer, it says.”
He held out his hands for it, and, perforce, she resigned it to him.
“Francesca!” he exclaimed.
“Odd, isn’t it? That’s what attracted me to it,” Bambi lied.
“Well, I suppose there are other Francescas. I came to ask you to listen to a scenario.”
“Good! I shall be delighted,” she replied cordially, folding the magazine over her finger.
So the fatal moment came and passed. Her secret was safe. She kept the cherished magazine in her own room, read and reread it, patting its cover, as one would a curly head.
Upon the receipt of her second story came a telegram from Strong, “Can you see me on Thursday? New plan for stories. Arrive in Sunnyside ten in the morning.” She wired him to come, then sat down
