Mrs. Annis, for such proved to be her name, welcomed him
effusively.
"I've heard so much about you!" she cried vivaciously, to Bob's vast
astonishment. She tapped him on the arm with her fan. "I'm going to make
a confession to you; I know it may be foolish, but I do like music so
much better than I do pictures."
Bob, his brain whirling, muttered something.
"But I'm going to confess to you again, I like artists so much better
than I do musicians."
A light dawned on Bob. "But I'm not an artist nor a musician," he
blurted out.
The pink-upholstered lady, starting back with an agility remarkable in
one of her size, clasped her hands.
"Don't _tell_ me you write!" she cried dramatically.
"All right, I won't," protested poor Bob, "for I don't."
A slow expression of bewilderment overspread Mrs. Annis's face, and she
glanced toward Baker with an arched brow of interrogation.
"I merely wanted Mr. Orde to meet you, Mrs. Annis," he said
impressively, "and to feel that another time, when he is less exhausted
by the strain of a long day, he may have the privilege of explaining to
you the details of the great Psychic Movement he is inaugurating.
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