The Great Novelist seemed to note our dejection.
“Come to the house,” he said, “my wife will give you a cup of tea.”
In a few moments we had forgotten all our troubles in the presence of one of the most charming chatelaines it has been our lot to meet.
We sat on a low stool immediately beside Ethelinda Afterthought, who presided in her own gracious fashion over the tea-urn.
“So you want to know something of my methods of work?” she said, as she poured hot tea over our leg.
“We do,” we answered, taking out our little book and recovering something of our enthusiasm. We do not mind hot tea being poured over us if people treat us as a human being.
“Can you indicate,” we continued, “what method you follow in beginning one of your novels?”
“I always begin,” said Ethelinda Afterthought, “with a study.”
“A study?” we queried.
“Yes. I mean a study of actual facts. Take, for example, my Leaves from the Life of a Steam Laundrywoman—more tea?”
“No, no,” we said.
“Well, to make that book I first worked two years in a laundry.”
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