And then she informed him that she was doing fairly well in journalism, and had attempted sensational fiction, but that none saw more clearly than she how worthless and contemptible her sort of work was, and none longed more sincerely than she to produce good work, serious work.... However, she knew she couldn't.
'Will you do me a favour?' she coaxed.
'What is it?' he said.
'Oh! No! You must promise.'
'Of course, if I can.'
'Well, you can. I want to know what your next book's about. I won't breathe a word to a soul. But I would like you to tell me. I would like to feel that it was you that had told me. You can't imagine how keen I am.'
'Ask me a little later,' he said. 'Will you?'
'To-night?'
She put her head on one side.