"I was thinking of a series of
articles on the old London Churches--touching upon the people connected
with them and the things they stood for. I've just finished the first
one."
"It ought to be the very thing," answered Miss Greyson. She was a thin,
faded woman with a soft, plaintive voice. "It will enable him to judge
your style. He's particular about that. Though I'm confident he'll like
it," she hastened to add. "Address it to me, will you. I assist him as
much as I can."
Joan added a few finishing touches that evening, and posted it; and a day
or two later received a note asking her to call at the office.
"My sister is enthusiastic about your article on Chelsea Church and
insists on my taking the whole series," Greyson informed her. "She says
you have the Stevensonian touch."
Joan flushed with pleasure.
"And you," she asked, "did you think it had the Stevensonian touch?"
"No," he answered, "it seemed to me to have more of your touch."
"What's that like?" she demanded.
"They couldn't suppress you," he explained. "Sir Thomas More with his
head under his arm, bloody old Bluebeard, grim Queen Bess, snarling old
Swift, Pope, Addison, Carlyle--the whole grisly crowd of them! I could
see you holding your own against them all, explaining things to them,
getting excited.
Pages:
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81