CHAPTER NINEJohnny Fabian, coming into what they called the morning-room, a convenient family gathering-place when the more formal drawing-room was not in use, found Mirrie there. She was sitting at an old-fashioned secretaire and she was engaged in writing a letter. She lifted a furrowed brow when he came in, stretched her inky fingers, and said in heartfelt tones,
‘Oh, how I do hate writing? Don’t you?’
He came and sat on the arm of the nearest chair.
‘It depends who I am writing to.’
Mirrie sighed.
‘I hate it always.’
‘You wouldn’t if you were writing to someone whom you passionately adored.’
‘Wouldn’t I?’
‘Definitely not. Think of your favourite film star and imagine he had just sent you a signed photograph and a flaming love-letter. Wouldn’t the words just come tripping off th
