Chapter Seven.
A Private Reading.
Theo was pressed into the service to write the words of the song for Miss Caldecott, and composed a graceful little ditty which was sufficiently touching even to the spinster mind, and might safely be trusted to melt the hearts of parents “in the front rows.” The task kept her happy and occupied while waiting for the answer to her letter, and Mr Hammond was both prompt and kind in his reply.
“I shall be happy to give what help I can to your father’s daughter,” he wrote. “He always appeared to me to have a very special gift, and I regretted that he did not cultivate it to the full. I hope that you have inherited his powers, but at the same time I feel it my duty to beg you to earnestly consider the matter before deciding on your life’s work. Many young people seem to imagine that they can ‘take up literature’ as they would typewriting or clerical work, which is a vast mistake, and it would be cruel to encourage you unless you possess the inherent qualifications. Would it not be better for the aiding of my judgment if, before coming to see me, you forwarded some short MS for my perusal? The time at my disposal is limited, but I will contrive to read anything you send before, say, Monday next, when I shall be pleased to see you at any time that may be convenient between eleven and one.”
The letter was read aloud at the breakfast-table, and the audience commented on it with the candour which distinguishes family conclaves.
“Very sensible! Short and to the point. How can he tell what sort of rubbish you write!” said Steve.
“Hope you notice the dash under the ‘short’! No chance for your novel, my dear. He doesn’t see himself sitting down to read hundreds of pages of your appalling fist. Grows more like lattice-work every day!” Philippa cried severely.
“I can just imagine what he is like! A proper little person, with a shiny bald head. Fancy writing love-scenes for his inspection! My hat!” and Madge lengthened her chin in an expressive grimace.
“The worst of it is, I don’t know what to send. I have nothing short that’s good enough. It ought to be striking, arresting, original. I—I want an idea,” cried poor Theo, staring frantically at the coffee-cups, and wrinkling her brow until she looked ten years older on the spot. “It’s finding a subject that is the hardest part. I love the writing when I’m once well started. I can’t possibly send anything before next week.”