“What sort of books do you want to write?”
“Stories,” said Lydia, “and perhaps poetry.”
“Have you ever tried?”
“Yes, Grandpapa.”
“One of these days,” said Grandpapa, with cautious vagueness, “you may read me one of your stories, and we shall see what we shall see; but you mustn’t expect to make a living by writing books, Lyddie. That’s a thing that’s only done by hard work.”
“What sort of hard work?”
“There’s very little hard work that women are fit for. They can go governessing, or school teaching, or nurse in hospitals. Your Aunt Beryl had a fancy that way once, but I told her she’d get as much nursing as she wanted at home, all in good time, and you see I was quite right.”
“Did Aunt Evelyn want to do something, too?”
“She wanted to get married, my dear, and so she took the first young fellow that came after her. Never you do that, Lyddie.”
Lydia raised surprised eyes to the old man’s face.