"Yes," she replied, "I write for the newspapers."
This piece of information astounded me more than ever. I imagined it to be the last place from which "copy" would emanate for the present go-ahead public prints, and the old lady to be the last person who could supply it.
She saw my puzzled look, and came to my aid with further information.
"Not the newspapers of this country," she added, "the newspapers of—of foreign countries."
I was more satisfied with this answer; the requirements of most foreign journals had not appeared to me to be excessive.
"I too am a brother of the pen," I answered, "I write books of sorts."
The old lady broke into a very sweet smile which lighted up her charming old face.
"Permit me to shake hands," she suggested, "with a fellow-sufferer in the cause of Literature."
I took her hand and noted its soft elegance, old though she was.
She crossed to a carved cupboard which was fixed in the wall, and took from it a tiny Venetian decanter, two little glasses, and a silver cigarette case.