"'As dull as a great thaw,'" she quoted. "It's like a giant's washing day--such a sloppiness and dreariness, and that horrible steamy feeling that a house gets when the frost goes suddenly and leaves everything damp, even the walls and the furniture. A new-made road is no great treat in a thaw. I stuck, and nearly left my big boots behind me this morning. I wish it would get dark and we could draw the curtains and have tea." "I don't want to grumble," Mrs. Douglas said, turning the heel of a stocking with a resigned air, "but these last few days have been very long. No post even! That was the last straw. I've knitted a pair of stockings for little Davie, and I've written a lot of letters, and I've tried each of the library books in turn, but nowadays nobody writes the sort of book I like. No, they don't, Ann." "But what kind of book pleases you, Mother? I thought we had rather a good selection this week. One or two are quite interesting." "Interesting!" repeated Mrs. Douglas. "They seemed to me the very essence of dullness. I don't think I'm ill to please, but I do like a book that is clean and kind. I put down each of those books in disgust; they're both dull and indecent. Is it easier to be clever and nasty than clever and clean?" "Oh, much," said Ann promptly. "It's a very hard thing, I should think, to write a book that is pleasant without being mawkish, whereas any fool can be nasty and can earn a reputation of sorts by writing what Davie used to call 'hot stuff.'" "Well, I wish some one would arise who would write for the middle-aged and elderly; there are a great many in the world, and they are neglected by nearly every one--fashion writers, fiction writers, play writers--no one caters for them. I like domestic fiction, gentle but not drivelling, good character drawing and a love story that ends all right." "In other words," said Ann, "good print and happy ending. What about me? Why shouldn't I become the writer for middle-aged women? I might almost call myself a writer now that I have wrestled for weeks with your _Life_, and I believe I would find it easier to write fiction than biography--to leave what Marget calls 'facs' and take to 'lees.' Facts crib and cabin one. Given a free hand I might develop an imagination." "Who knows? Only don't begin anything else until you have finished the job you are at. I do hate to leave unfinished work." "Oh, so do I," said Ann, "and I mean to plod on with the _Life_ to the bitter end--but I had better take bigger strides and cover the ground. From Davie's birth--do you remember he used to say when we complained of his accent, 'Well, you shouldn't have borned me in Glasgow'--on till you went to South Africa nothing of importance happened." Mrs. Douglas stared at her daughter. "Seven years," she said. "Did nothing important happen in those years?" "_Nothing_," Ann said firmly, "except that the boys left school and went to Oxford----"