“How could she? It is all letters,” asked Billie, whose chair was becoming a burden as she felt she must get into the discussion.
“Cut ’em, anyhow. Letters in fiction are no good.”
“Humph! How about the early English novelists?” asked Molly.
“Dead! Dead! All of them dead!” stormed Lilian.
“Then how about Mary Roberts Rinehart and Booth Tarkington and lots of others? Daddy Longlegs is all letters.”
“All the samey, it is a poor stunt,” insisted the intrepid Lilian. “I call it a lazy way to get your idea over.”
“Perhaps you are right, but the point is: did I get my idea over?”
“We-ll, yes,—but they tell me editors don’t like letter form of fiction.”
“Certainly none of them have liked this,” sighed Molly, who had devoutly hoped her little story would sell. The money she made herself was very delightful to receive and more delightful to spend. A professor’s salary can as a rule stand a good deal of supplementing.
“How about the plot, now?” asked Billie, having finished with the general impression.