I'd better not intrude." The lady evidently did not agree with him.

He amused her because he was what she called a "type," and she was always on the lookout for "types." She urged him to join the picnic, and said he could try not to talk books, and reminded him that no one could do more than try.

He climbed the fence with a reluctance that was the more noticeable because his climbing was retarded by the oilcloth-covered parcel he held beneath his arm.

The lady smiled as she noticed that he had not feared his soliciting habits sufficiently to leave the book in the buggy, and she made a mental note of this to be used in the story she meant to write about this book-agent type.
"My name is Smith," she told him, as she tripped lightly toward the group about the lunch baskets.
Eliph' Hewlitt was a small man and his movements were short and jerky.
He drew his hand over his red whiskers and coughed gently when she mentioned her name, and as she hurried on before him he looked at her tall, straight figure; noticed the stylish mode of her simple summer gown, and caught a glimpse of low, white shoes and neat ankles covered by delicately woven silk.
"Courtship--How to Make Love--How to Win the Affections--How to Hold Them When Won," he meditated.

"Lovely, but she will not suit.