“I am afraid you wouldn’t find them very interesting—but I should like to know if you think there’s any hope for me, Mr. ——”
“My name is Margoliouth,” said he.
No one else had ever been honoured by the information.
Lydia went upstairs, discreetly taking upon herself to break up the tête-à-tête, with increased self-satisfaction.
She was less pleased a few days later when she discovered that everybody in the boarding-house now knew that she wrote stories.
“I’m not a bit surprised,” Miss Forster cried loudly and joyously. “I always felt we had a lot in common. Why, I should write myself if I could only find the time.”
She traced rapid scribbles in the air with her forefinger.
“It must be a great hobby for you,” said pale Mr. Bulteel, looking respectfully at Lydia.
“Perhaps one night you’ll read us one of your stories,” his wife suggested.
She was not usually gracious to the other women in the house, but Lydia had always listened sympathetically to her account of the agony that she suffered from her teeth, now undergoing extensive structural alterations.