Enoch
smiled, patted him on the shoulders and ran down the stairs.
A dinner at the British Ambassador's was always exceedingly formal as
to food and service, exceedingly informal as to conversation. Enoch
took in a woman novelist, a woman a little past middle age who was very
small and very famous.
"Well," she said, as she pulled off her gloves, "I've been wanting to
meet you for a long time."
"I'm not difficult to meet," returned Enoch, with a smile.
"As to that I've had no personal experience but three; several friends
of mine have been trampled upon by your secretary. They all were
women, of course."
"Why, of course?" demanded Enoch.
"One of the qualities that is said to make you so attractive to my sex
is that you are a woman hater. Now just why do you hate us?"
"I don't hate women." Enoch spoke with simple sincerity. "I'm afraid
of them."
"Why?"
"I don't think I really know. Do you like men?"
"Yes, I do," replied Mrs. Rotherick promptly.
"Why?" asked Enoch.
"They aren't such cats as women," she chuckled. "Perhaps cat fear is
your trouble! What are you going to do about Mexico, Mr. Huntingdon?"
Enoch smiled. "I told the President at great length, this afternoon,
what I thought we ought to do.
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