“Oh, you were a real writer, were you?” she said. “I know . . . great piles of stuff all on the same sort of writing pad. Reams and reams of it! I know. That’s the kind that gets destroyed, my boy. No girl wants to take round a pantechnicon. You needn’t have worried. It’s the little dangerous half sheets that get kept. Who’s going to wade through a life story every time they want cheering up? Well, now that your mind’s at rest, come on. Let’s go down.”
As they descended through the great shadowy house, whose elegance was departed forever, she went on to talk about the accident.
“One of the Brock brothers, on my second floor, said it sounded like suicide to him from the papers,” she remarked. “The jury didn’t have enough to go on, or something. But if there’s one thing I am sure of, it wa
