Some advertised badly and some well. Some were
modern and some were old-fashioned. Then we would talk of
agents and the offers they had obtained for us; of editors and
the sort of contributions they welcomed, how much they paid a
thousand, and whether they paid promptly or otherwise. To me
it was all very romantic. It gave me an intimate sense of
being a member of some mystic brotherhood.
Chapter IV
No one was kinder to me at that time than Rose Waterford.
She combined a masculine intelligence with a feminine perversity,
and the novels she wrote were original and disconcerting.
It was at her house one day that I met Charles Strickland's wife.
Miss Waterford was giving a tea-party, and her small room was
more than usually full. Everyone seemed to be talking, and I,
sitting in silence, felt awkward; but I was too shy to break
into any of the groups that seemed absorbed in their own affairs.
Miss Waterford was a good hostess, and seeing my embarrassment
came up to me.
"I want you to talk to Mrs. Strickland," she said.
"She's raving about your book."
"What does she do?" I asked.
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