“I don’t know what she writes; I only know she writes books; I think I’ve heard she writes novels.”
Fred did not approve of novels—Esther could see that—and she was sorry; for he seemed a nice, clear-spoken young man, and she would have liked to tell him that her mistress was the last person who would write anything that could do harm to anyone. But her mistress was waiting for her paper, and she took leave of him hastily. The next time they met was in the evening. She was going to see if she could get some fresh eggs for her mistress’s breakfast before the shops closed, and coming towards her, walking at a great pace, she saw one whom she thought she recognised, a meagre little man with long reddish hair curling under the brim of a large soft black hat. He nodded, smiling pleasantly as h
