After a while she opened the drawer of the table and took out the manuscript, and, more in the hope of forgetting for a while about Grisel than for anything else she began to read it. How flat it was! How dull! The people were all unnatural; their language silly and vulgar. Her face settled into lines of utter misery as she read. Mr. Lubbock and Mr. Payne would never publish such stuff. She heard a clock strike once or twice as she sat reading. The sound conveyed nothing to her. On and on she read, and when finally the page with "finis" caught her eye she realised that it must be late, and started up guiltily. Her misery was too deep for tears, but as she closed the door on the failure she spoke aloud to herself. "Written out," she said slowly. "That's what it is. I'm old, and I'm written out."
Early that afternoon a woman who lived on the same landing as Miss Breeze, came to "Happy House" with a note.
Caroline was in bed with a bad go of asthma, and would Violet come to see her? Mrs. Walbridge went to the girls' room, where Griselda was writing notes, and told her.
"Poor Caroline! I suppose I ought to go, dear, but I don't want to miss Sir John when he comes."
Grisel, who had been very gay and full of laughter all day, looked up sombrely.
"Oh, he won't be here before tea-time, I should think," she said. "He's very busy, you know. Besides, father's in. Don't stay long. It'll be all right."
"Writing letters, are you?" her mother asked foolishly.
She nodded. "Yes. Ever so many people I've got to tell, of course. Looks so silly written down. 'I know you will be glad to hear,' 'I'm sure you will be surprised when I tell you'"—she jabbed viciously at a clean sheet of paper with her pen, sending a spray of ink across it.