Of the hard feeling which she had exhibited against Eleanor, Mrs. Scott gave now no sign. She spoke of "Our budding authoress" with whom she said she had had little opportunity thus far to become acquainted. How, she asked, with her sweetest expression, did one write? She drew a picture of Eleanor sitting before a ream of paper, laying aside finished sheets with machine-like regularity.
Eleanor made no answer; she did not wish to be rude, but she had no words. It was before the days when the reporter penetrated through the boudoir of the writer or artist into the more secret regions of his work-room to watch hands flitting above a typewriter, or to photograph preoccupation at a flower-laden mahogany desk. Eleanor blushed as though she had been asked to describe the process of putting on her clothes.
Her silence did not suggest to Mrs. Scott the propriety of stopping.
"What are you going to do, Miss Bent?"
"What do you mean, Mrs. Scott?"
"I mean are you going to bury your talent in Waltonville or are you going into the great world? I hear that women are going into all the fields of men. Perhaps you will be a reporter and write us all up!"
"I have no plans for anything of that kind."
"You speak as though Waltonville were a cemetery, Mrs. Scott," said Thomasina.
"Where did you get the idea for your little story?" persisted Mrs. Scott.
It was clear now that Eleanor was being baited. Even Mrs. Lister felt sympathy. Eleanor's cheeks flamed; their color could be seen even in the dim light. Thomasina was about to answer, when Dr. Green interposed.