“Well, which of my novels do you wish me to talk about?” I relaxed with a delightful sense of relief. I felt on solid ground at last. And then it suddenly came to me that Ukridge in his woollen-headed way had omitted to mention the name of a single one of this woman’s books. “Er—oh, all of them,” I said hurriedly. “I see. My general literary work.” “Exactly,” I said. My feeling towards her now was one of positive affection. She leaned back in her chair with her finger-tips together, a pretty look of meditation on her face. “Do you think it would interest the readers of _Woman’s Sphere_ to know which novel of mine is my own favourite?” “I am sure it would.” “Of course,” said Ukridge’s aunt, “it is not easy for an author to answer a question like that. You see, one has moods in which first one book and then another appeals to one.” “Quite,” I replied. “Quite.” “Which of my books do _you_ like best, Mr. Corcoran?” There swept over me the trapped feeling one gets in nightmares. From six baskets the six Pekingese stared at me unwinkingly. “Er—oh, all of them,” I heard a croaking voice reply. My voice, presumably, though I did not recognise it. “How delightful!” said Ukridge’s aunt. “Now, I really do call that delightful. One or two of the critics have said that my work was uneven. It is so nice to meet someone who doesn’t agree with them. Personally, I think my favourite is _The Heart of Adelaide_.” I nodded my approval of this sound choice. The muscles which had humped themselves stiffly on my back began to crawl back into place again. I found it possible to breathe. “Yes,” I said, frowning thoughtfully, “I suppose _The Heart of Adelaide_ is the best thing you have written. It has such human appeal,” I added, playing it safe. “Have you read it, Mr. Corcoran?” “Oh yes.” “And you really enjoyed it?” “Tremendously.” “You don’t think it is a fair criticism to say that it is a little broad in parts?” “Most unfair.” I began to see my way. I do not know why, but I had been assuming that her novels must be the sort you find in seaside libraries. Evidently they belonged to the other class of female novels, the sort which libraries ban. “Of course,” I said, “it is written honestly, fearlessly, and shows life as it is. But broad? No, no!” “That scene in the conservatory?” “Best thing in the book,” I said stoutly. A pleased smile played about her mouth. Ukridge had been right. Praise her work, and a child could eat out of her hand. I found myself wishing that I had really read the thing, so that I could have gone into more detail and made her still happier. “I’m so glad you like it,” she said. “Really, it is most encouraging.” “Oh, no,” I murmured modestly. “Oh, but it is. Because I have only just started to write it, you see. I finished chapter one this morning.” She was still smiling so engagingly that for a moment the full horror of these words did not penetrate my consciousness.