"Book dragging?" "Badly." "What's the trouble?" "Come to a full stop. I know where I am, and I know where I want to get, but there's a middle distance to be filled in... filled, not padded... and ideas won't come. I need four or five chapters to give the characters time to--er--" "I know." Grizel tilted her chin and assumed an expression of ferocious absorption. She would emerge from it presently and make suggestions, and none of the suggestions would be of the slightest use. Martin knew as much, but he lingered all the same because Grizel was Grizel, and whatever she said delighted him to hear. "Make the heroine go into the park, and sit on a bench, and talk to an old man..." "Yes." "Well... A shabby old man, but with signs of race. He would hint at troubles, and she would sort of lure him on to tell her his history--" "Yes?" "How stupid you are! Then of course you must work it out. He might be a miser, or an uncle from China--or the husband of someone who had married again. _Is_ anyone married again?" "No." "Oh, well then, she _won't_ meet him! ... What about a fire? No! you had a fire in the last book. Or a flood. Is there a river anywhere handy that could flood them out?" "There is not." "Don't be so blighting. I'm trying to help. Could there be a lost will? It's banal, I know, but what can you do? Everyone writes novels, and there isn't a plot left. Even leprosy is overdone. Now if you'd bring in a few chapters about the parlourmaid I'd write them for you. That reminds me! I was forgetting to ask you something, and it's most important. Parsons says there are two handkerchiefs short from the laundry, and the man is coming for the money, and what will I say. Martin! what _do I_ say? What does one say when the laundry is short? Should I be angry? How angry? I don't care a dump about the old things, but I'll pretend I do. Shall I tell him you've a cold, and have only a dozen and can't do without them? Ought I to make him leave his own? Just give me a hint, and I'll work it out. Could I demand compensation? Happy thought! Are they insured?" Martin laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "Domesticities again. I'm off. I believe Katrine used to dock off sixpences... Well! you will let the Raynors know that we can have the house?" "I'll ring up Cassandra, and ask her to drive round to talk over details. Whenever I'm sorry that I married you, Martin, I'm glad again because of Cassandra. I'm a real safety valve to Cassandra. The poor dear soul had no one to grumble to before I came. A sympathetic woman listener who is not above throwing in a curse on her own account is absolutely necessary when one lives alone with a man. Now look at you--" Martin shut the door firmly behind him, and mounted the staircase two steps at a time. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. MRS MALLISON SHOCKED.