"It's the heat.
I get an attack like this sometimes. Yes, I'm Mr. Trent. I don't
know what you're doing here, but you're welcome."
"How nice of you to say so!" she answered brightly. "But then
perhaps you'll change your mind when you know what I have been
doing."
He laughed shortly.
"Nothing terrible, I should say. "Looks as though you've been
making a picture of my house; I don't mind that."
She dived in her pocket and produced a card-case.
"I'll make full confession," she said frankly. "I'm a journalist."
"A what!" he repeated feebly.
"A journalist. I'm on the Hour. This isn't my work as a rule; but
the man who should have come is ill, and his junior can't sketch,
so they sent me! Don't look as though I were a ghost, please.
Haven't you ever heard of a girl journalist before?"
"Never," he answered emphatically. "I didn't know that ladies did
such things!"
She laughed gaily but softly; and Trent understood then what was
meant by the music of a woman's voice.
"Oh, it's not at all an uncommon thing," she answered him. "You
won't mind my interviewing you, will you?"
"Doing what?" he asked blankly.
"Interviewing you! That's what I've come for, you know; and we want
a little sketch of your house for the paper.
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