And she was so shy, so immensely reserved. She was not really at her ease with him, he saw, except when the boys were present or his father. She would talk about herself, when Stacey questioned her, as though she were talking of some one else.
“What do you do with your day, Catherine?” he asked once. “I mean, when the boys are away at school.”
This seemed to startle her, rather. “I—I write, or try to, regularly, Stacey,” she replied, after a moment.
They were walking in the garden, and he paused suddenly to stare at her. “You mean—things to publish?” he cried, amazed.
“Yes. Does it seem incredible? I suppose it does,” she returned simply.
“No! No! I don’t mean that! I should think you probably had more to say than any one else I know, only—pardon me, Catherine!—oh, well, let’s be frank!—expression isn’t your forte.”
She laughed shyly at this. “It’s easier when you write,” she said.
“Yes, of course it must be. What kind of things?”
“Little articles,” she replied haltingly. “Mostly for English papers. It’s hard to get them accepted here. One or two places—do—sometimes.”
“You’ll let me see them? Please!”