“But how splendid!” cried Mrs. Tregaskis with enthusiasm. “Who publishes for you?”
Ludovic felt convinced that she expected him to disclaim ever having got as far as publication, and took a vicious satisfaction in replying:
“‘Cameron’s Review’ has taken one or two small things, but they really are so very few and far between that only a fond parent could look upon me as a writer, in any sense of the word.”
“Nonsense,” murmured his mother. “Don’t listen to him, Bertie. He had a most beautiful thing, pages and pages long, all about Early English Poetry in the ‘Age of Literature,’ only a few weeks ago.”
Mrs. Tregaskis appeared to be as much impressed as the fondest of parents could desire.
“You don’t say so! Splendid! Scrumptious!” She almost shouted in her enthusiasm.
“I envy you dilettantes, who have time for all that sort of thing. A poverty-stricken Cornish woman like myself has to write what and when she can, just to turn an honest penny now and then.”
“Bertie! you don’t mean to say you write, as well as everything else?”
“Oh my dear Sybil, the greatest rubbish, you know—just a story here and there, to bring in a much-needed guinea.”
She laughed the gallant laugh of one who would scorn to deny the need of guineas.