An important contract had got behindhand
and they were working overtime. She and her father dined alone. He made
her fulfil her promise to talk about herself, and she told him all she
thought would interest him. She passed lightly over her acquaintanceship
with Phillips. He would regard it as highly undesirable, she told
herself, and it would trouble him. He was reading her articles in the
_Sunday Post_, as also her Letters from Clorinda: and of the two
preferred the latter as being less subversive of law and order. Also he
did not like seeing her photograph each week, displayed across two
columns with her name beneath in one inch type. He supposed he was old-
fashioned. She was getting rather tired of it herself.
"The Editor insisted upon it," she explained. "It was worth it for the
opportunity it gives me. I preach every Sunday to a congregation of over
a million souls. It's better than being a Bishop. Besides," she added,
"the men are just as bad. You see their silly faces everywhere."
"That's like you women," he answered with a smile.
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