“She writes, you know,” he said, vaguely. I said I hadn’t known, and looked for further particulars.
“ ’Fraid I haven’t read any of her books,” said the boy. “I suppose I should, as I go to stay there: but I’m not much of a chap for reading, unless it’s American yarns—you know, cowboy stuff. I can tackle those: but Mrs. McNab’s would be a bit beyond me. I tried an article of hers once, in a magazine my sister had, but even a wet towel round my head couldn’t make it anything but Greek to me. And the Prof. could tell you how much good I am at Greek!”
“She writes real books, then?” I asked, greatly thrilled. I had never met anyone who actually wrote books, and in my innocence it seemed to me that authors must be wholly wonderful.
“Oh, rather! She’s ‘Julia Smale,’ you see. Ever heard of her?”
I had—in a vague way: had even encountered a book by “Julia Smale,” lent me by a fellow-teacher at Madame Carr’s, who had passed it on to me with the remark that if I could make head or tail of it, it was more than she had been able to do. I had found it a novel of the severe type, full of reflections that were far too deep for me. With a sigh for having wasted an opportunity that might be useful, I remembered that I had not finished it. How I wished that I had done so! It would have been such an excellent introduction to my employer, I thought, if I could have lightly led the conversation to this masterpiece in the first half-hour at The Towers. Now, I could only hope that she would never mention it.
Mr. Atherton nodded sympathetically as I confided this to him.
“I’m blessed if I know anyone who does read them,” he said. “They may be the sort of thing the Americans like: she publishes in America, you know. Curious people, the Yanks: you wouldn’t think that the nation that can produce a real good yarn like ‘The Six-Gun Tenderfoot’ would open its heart to ‘Julia Smale.’ I’m quite sure Harry and Beryl—that’s her daughter—don’t read her works. Certainly, I’ll say for her she doesn’t seem to expect anyone to. She locks herself up alone to write, and nobody dares to disturb her, but she doesn’t talk much about the work. Not like a Johnny I knew who wrote a book; he used to wander down Collins Street with it in his hand, and asked every soul he knew if they’d read it. Very trying, because it was awful bosh, and nobody had. Mrs. McNab isn’t like that, thank goodness!”
“And Mr. McNab?” I asked.
“Oh, he’s a nice old chap. Not so old, either, when I come to think of it: I believe they were married very young. A bit hard, they say, but a good sort. He’s away: sailed for England last month, on a year’s trip.”
I did not like to ask any more questions, so the conversation switched on to something else, and the time went by quite quickly. The train was a slow one, crawling along in a leisurely fashion and stopping for lengthy periods at all the little stations; it would have been a dull journey alone, and I was glad of my cheery red-haired companion. By the time we reached Wootong we were quite old friends; and any feeling that I might have had about the informality of our introduction to each other was completely dissolved by the discovery that he had a wholesome reverence for Colin’s reputation in athletics, which was apparently a sort of College tradition. When Mr. Atherton found that I was “the” Earle’s sister he gazed at me with a reverence which I fear had never been excited by Mrs. McNab, even in her most literary moments. It was almost embarrassing, but not unpleasing: and we talked of Colin and his school and college record until we felt that we had known each other for years. I didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry when, after a long run, the train slackened speed, and Mr. Atherton began hurriedly to collect our luggage, remarking, “By George, we’re nearly in!” And a moment later I was standing, a little forlornly, on the Wootong platform.