‘He ought to go out. My only brother is out. I wish I were a man. I hate dawdlers.’ She looked at him: her eyes were large and grey under black lashes, they were dark and louring.
‘Have you, by any chance, a spark of the devil in you?’ asked Merton, taking a social header.
‘I have been told so, and sometimes thought so,’ said Miss Willoughby. ‘Perhaps this one will go out by fasting if not by prayer. Yes, I have a spark of the Accuser of the Brethren.’
‘Tant mieux,’ thought Merton.
All the people were talking and laughing now. Miss Maskelyne told a story to the table. She did a trick with a wine glass, forks, and a cork. Logan interviewed Miss Martin, who wrote tales for the penny fiction people, on her methods. Had she a moral aim, a purpose? Did she create her characters first, and let them evolve their fortunes, or did she invent a plot, and make her characters fit in?
Miss Martin said she began with a situation: ‘I wish I could get one somewhere as secretary to a man of letters.’
‘They can’t afford secretaries,’ said Logan. ‘Besides they are family men, married men, and so—’
‘And so what?’
‘Go look in any glass, and say,’ said Logan, laughing. ‘But how do you begin with a situation?’
‘Oh, anyhow. A lot of men in a darkened room. Pitch dark.’