“Yes?” asked Gita, who was now neither the polite Miss Carteret nor the aggressive lad but merely one girl interested in another. “Do tell me what is the object.”
Elsie Brewster smiled as warmly in response and succumbed to the revulsion of feeling. “You see—I lead a double life.”
“What!” Gita’s eyes sparkled. There was no mystery whatever about Polly and her group. “What on earth do you mean? You’re not secretly married again——Oh! No! That would be too commonplace.”
“I should think so. No—but this is quite a secret—my ambition is to be a writer—a novelist, if possible. I’ve had a few things accepted by the magazines: two or three by the best, others just anywhere my agent could place them. Of course it will be a long time before I can make a real income out of writing and give up my job—my mother’s income hardly covers the rent of this house and her subscriptions to charities, and club dues—what I make supports us very comfortably. Reputation—the kind that is remunerative, at least—takes time; but I know I shall succeed in the end!”
“You look as if you would.” Gita glowed with enthusiasm. “I’m frightfully interested. I do wish I had a gift. But I should think that after a hard day’s work you’d be too tired to write.”
“Sometimes I am, but as a rule I manage to put in three or four hours at night.”
“I think you are wonderful! Where do you write your stories?” She glanced around the stiff inhospitable room, furnished in the reps of the seventies. “In your bedroom?”
“Oh, no, I have a real study. Should you like to see it?”
“Shouldn’t I! Lead me to it.”
She followed Mrs. Brewster down the long hall and into a small room fitted up with a large flat desk to which a typewriter was firmly attached, a swivel chair, revolving bookcases, stands for dictionary and atlas, and a filing cabinet.