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As sister of the world-famous author, Marriott Nolan Tarbro, she was always received with consideration in New York, even by editors, but in seeking out a dead eddy in middle Iowa she had been in search of the two things that the woman author most desires, and best handles: local color and types.
The minister wiped his spectacles on his handkerchief, readjusted them on his nose, and bent over the book. "What is your brother's name?" he asked kindly, but with solemnity. "Marriott Nolan Tarbro," she answered. He traced the lines carefully with his finger. "Born?" he asked. "June 4, 1864, at Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson." "And he is married?"
Smith, as one would mention Shakespeare or Napoleon. "Tarbro. Marriott Nolan Tarbro." "Well," said Mrs. Stein slowly, turning her head on one side and looking at the spot on the ceiling from which the plaster had fallen, "I won't say I haven't. And I won't say I have. When a person reads as much as what I do, she reads so many names they slip out of memory.
She thought she had heard of a Mister Tweed of New York, once. Then, quite suddenly, Mrs. Smith remembered her own brother, the great Marriott Nolan Tarbro, whose romances sold in editions of hundreds of thousands, and who was, beyond all doubt, the greatest living novelist. Kings had been glad to meet him, and newsboys and gamins ran shouting at his heels when he walked the streets.
Smith, sister of the well-known novelist, Marriott Nolan Tarbro, takes two copies of Jarby's Encyclopedia of Knowledge and Compendium of Literature, Science and Art, bound in full morocco, one of which she begs to present to the worthy pastor of this happy flock, with her compliments and good wishes." "I can't thank you," stammered the minister; "it is so kind.
"How silly of me," she said. "You must have heard of my brother, Marriott Nolan Tarbro, you know, who wrote 'The Marquis of Glenmore' and 'The Train Wreckers'?" Mrs. Bell coughed apologetically behind her hand. "I'm not very littery, Mrs. Smith," she said kindly, "but mebby Mrs. Stein knows of him. Mrs. Stein reads a lot." Mrs.
Stein, whose sole reading was the Bible and such advertising booklets as came by mail, or as she could pick up on the counter of the drugstore, when she went to Kilo, moved uneasily. For years she had had the reputation of being a great reader, and brought face to face with the sister of an author she feared her reputation was about to fall. "What say his name was?" she asked. "Tarbro," said Mrs.
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