She saw he had some rather untidy papers in his hand and was looking extremely self-conscious, so she spoke kindly and encouragingly.
“Well, I daresay you noticed, Bertha, in my report, that history was very good.”
“I think I did,” she said gravely. “If I recollect right the report said: ‘History nearly up to the level of the form.’”
“Oh, I say, was that all? Gracious! Well, anyhow, I’ve read a lot of history, and I’m fearfully keen about it. And, I say, my idea was, you see, I thought I’d write a historical play.”
“Oh! what a splendid idea!” cried Bertha, jumping up, looking very pleased, but serious. “Have you got it there, Cliff?”
“Yes. Well, as a matter of fact, I have got a bit of it here.”
“Are you going to let me read it?”
“Well, I don’t think you can,” he answered rather naïvely. “It’s not quite clean enough; but I’ll read a bit of it to you, if you don’t mind. Er—you see—it’s about Mary.”
“Which Mary?”
“Oh, Bertha! what a question! As if I’d write about William and Mary, or—er—er—I beg your pardon—I mean the other Mary. No, Mary, Queen of Scots, is the only one who’s any good for a play.”