Cass protects me from the literary wolves--the reporters. He
thinks I am a writer because I have so many books, and, to him, an
author is next to an angel. Was he rude to you? You must forgive him,
for he is my Saint George who protects me from the Dragon."
Quincy was mollified to a certain extent. "Do I look like a Dragon?
If I am one, history came near being reversed, for at one time your
Saint George's hold on life was frail."
Late in the afternoon of the next day Quincy made another call on
Mary. He had telephoned and learned that she was in her room. Mr.
Cass was temporarily absent from his desk and Quincy went at once to
the elevator.
"I axed Mr. Cass about his tongue," said the elevator man.
"Was it better?" asked Quincy.
"He said I was labourin' under a misapprihinsion. What's that?"
"He meant that it was improving," said Quincy, as he hurried from the
elevator.
"How did you get home last night?" was Mary's salutation as he
entered.
"I groped my way down two flights of stairs in the dark. When I
opened the front door by the upper handle as Mr. Cass had kindly
instructed me to do, I found that gentleman on the steps. 'Quite
late,' said he. 'Not for me,' said I. At that moment my auto drew up
at the curb."
"A narrow escape from a Cass-trophe," exclaimed Miss Dana. "Pardon
the pun, but sometimes he is insufferably loquacious.
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