She could not place Jane. She had the air of a
nurse, and yet she wore no uniform.
"Who are you?" she asked stiffly.
"Who are _you_?" countered Jane.
"I," said Mrs. Hignett portentously, "am the owner of this house, and I
should be glad to know what you are doing in it. I am Mrs. Horace
Hignett."
A charming smile spread itself over Jane's finely-cut face.
"I'm so glad to meet you," she said. "I have heard so much about you."
"Indeed?" said Mrs. Hignett. "And now I should like to hear a little
about you."
"I've read all your books," said Jane. "I think they're wonderful."
In spite of herself, in spite of a feeling that this young woman was
straying from the point, Mrs. Hignett could not check a slight influx
of amiability. She was an authoress who received a good deal of incense
from admirers, but she could always do with a bit more. Besides, most
of the incense came by mail. Living a quiet and retired life in the
country, it was rarely that she got it handed to her face to face.
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