and the rain came pattering down on my bed. There was no poetry in that. I had to get up in the ‘mirk midnight’ and chivy round to pull the bedstead out of the drip—and it was one of those solid, old-fashioned beds that weigh a ton—more or less. And then that drip-drop, drip-drop kept up all night until my nerves just went to pieces. You’ve no idea what an eerie noise a great drop of rain falling with a mushy thud on a bare floor makes in the night. It sounds like ghostly footsteps and all that sort of thing. What are you laughing over, Anne?”
“These stories. As Phil would say they are killing—in more senses than one, for everybody died in them. What dazzlingly lovely heroines we had—and how we dressed them!
“Silks—satins—velvets—jewels—laces—they never wore anything else. Here is one of Jane Andrews’ stories depicting her heroine as sleeping in a beautiful white satin nightdress trimmed with seed pearls.”
“Go on,” said Stella. “I begin to feel that life is worth living as long as there’s a laugh in it.”
“Here’s one I wrote. My heroine is disporting herself at a ball ‘glittering from head to foot with large diamonds of the first water.’ But what booted beauty or rich attire? ‘The paths of glory lead but to the grave.’ They must either be murdered or die of a broken heart. There was no escape for them.”
“Let me read some of your stories.”
“Well, here’s my masterpiece. Note its cheerful title—‘My Graves.’ I shed quarts of tears while writ-
