Robert went back to his desk and the morning’s work began. For some time the click of the typewriter went on without interruption. Then Philippa turned.
“What am I to say about this letter of Mr. Nevern’s?” she asked in a casual tone.
Robert frowned at the name.
“What’s it about? I forget.”
“He encloses a poem, and asks your opinion upon it.”
“He’d be sorry if I gave it,” returned Robert, with a laugh.
Philippa waited in silence.
“Is that what I’m to say?” she inquired at last in a voice that expressed nothing.
“Don’t be silly. Just write the usual note, of course. I’m much struck by the grace and charm of his verses, and so forth. And don’t mention the Literary Review, which is, of course, what he wants mentioned. That’s the worst of having influence. One’s badgered incessantly by a lot of incompetent fools.”
Philippa’s machine was at once set in motion. In a few minutes she had written two notes. Two or three minutes later the postman’s knock was heard, and Robert went out into the hall to get the letters. He returned with two or three, and stood opening them by the chimney-piece.