"He can't be doing much—one never hears of him," she said.
"Provence is aiming at rather a high standard," said George; "he is not easily contented with his work. It's the hardest thing in the world to get him to publish a line."
The young woman with the low-comedy nose looked at him gratefully from under the rim of her hat. He wondered why.
"I know the kind of thing," said the Bonnet. "Literature is all very well if you make a regular business of it, but the moment you regard it as an art, you're practically done for. We all know you'll never earn a penny."
"But Godfrey's a clever chap," said the Captain; "he must be clever, you know, Sarah—everybody says so."
"What's the use of being clever if you're never heard of?" said Sarah, who was no other than Lady Hemingway, widow of Sir James Hemingway, Baronet.
"Well, of course, his style is what they call severe," said the Captain; "he's got the artistic temperament, and writes rather above the heads of ordinary folk."
"There's a good deal of human nature in him all the same," put in George.
Lady Hemingway looked suspicious. She was not at all sure that human nature was proper: she was certain it was not well-bred: in connection with the artistic temperament it was even alarming.
"Does he write things one could have on one's drawing-room table?" she said." I consider that is