“I suppose the men delight in seeing the women writhe under criticism,” said Emily.
“Well, it isn’t easy to endure criticism,” replied Miss Gresham. “But it must be borne, and it does one good, whether it’s just or unjust. It teaches one to realise that this world is not a hothouse.”
“I wish it were—sometimes,” confessed Emily. The near approach of “the struggle for existence” made her faint-hearted.
Miss Gresham could not resist a smile as she looked at Emily, in face, in dress, in manner, the “hothouse” woman. “It could be for you, if you wished it.”
“But I don’t,” said Emily, with sudden energy and a change of expression that brought out the strong lines of her mouth and chin. And Miss Gresham began to suspect that there were phases to her character other than sweetness and a fondness for the things immemorially feminine. “I purpose to learn to like the open air,” she said, and looked it.
Miss Gresham nodded approvingly. “The open air is best, in the end. It develops every plant according to its nature. The hothouses stunt the best plants, and disguise lots of rank weeds.”
As they were coming away from the convention, Miss Gresham said: “Instead of handing in your story to the City Desk, keep it, and we’ll go over it together this evening, after I’m through.”
“Thank you—it’s so good of you to take the trouble. Yes, I’ll try.” Emily hesitated and grew red.
“What is it?” asked Miss Gresham, encouragingly.
“I was thinking about—this evening. I never thought of it before—do you write at night? And how do you get home?”