I was conscious of my ignorance, and if Mrs. Strickland was a
well-known writer I thought it as well to ascertain the fact
before I spoke to her.
Rose Waterford cast down her eyes demurely to give greater
effect to her reply.
"She gives luncheon-parties. You've only got to roar a
little, and she'll ask you."
Rose Waterford was a cynic. She looked upon life as an
opportunity for writing novels and the public as her raw
material. Now and then she invited members of it to her house
if they showed an appreciation of her talent and entertained
with proper lavishness. She held their weakness for lions in
good-humoured contempt, but played to them her part of the
distinguished woman of letters with decorum.
I was led up to Mrs. Strickland, and for ten minutes we
talked together. I noticed nothing about her except that she
had a pleasant voice. She had a flat in Westminster, overlooking
the unfinished cathedral, and because we lived in the same
neighbourhood we felt friendly disposed to one another.
The Army and Navy Stores are a bond of union between all who dwell
between the river and St.
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