“Dear me, no. I shouldn’t think of writing poetry nowadays. I know very well that I can’t. But I’ve written one or two short stories, and I should like one day—to write books.”
“Have these stories of yours been published?”
“No, not yet,” said Lydia. “I haven’t tried to publish them. I don’t know if they’re the right length, or where to send them, or anything.”
“Haven’t you ever come across a useful little book called ‘The Artist and Author’s Handbook?’ That would give you all the information you require.”
“Would it? I could try and get it,” said Lydia doubtfully.
She did not want to spend any extra money. There had proved to be so many unforeseen expenses in London.
“I think I have a copy. Allow me to lend it to you,” said the Greek. “It will give you a list of the publishers, and publications, and a great deal of very practical information. You should certainly see it. I will give it to you to-morrow.”
“Oh, thank you!”
“In return,” said the obliging foreigner, with a slight smile, “may I not be allowed to read one of your tales?”
Lydia, the intuitive, had been mentally anticipating the request. She was eager enough for a verdict upon her work, and only pretended a little modest hesitation.