Chapter IV


No one was kinder to me at that time than Rose Waterford.
She combined a masculine intelligence with a feminine perversity,
and the novels she wrote were original and disconcerting.
It was at her house one day that I met Charles Strickland's wife.
Miss Waterford was giving a tea-party, and her small room was
more than usually full. Everyone seemed to be talking, and I,
sitting in silence, felt awkward; but I was too shy to break
into any of the groups that seemed absorbed in their own affairs.
Miss Waterford was a good hostess, and seeing my embarrassment
came up to me.

"I want you to talk to Mrs. Strickland," she said.
"She's raving about your book."

"What does she do?" I asked.

I was conscious of my ignorance, and if Mrs. Strickland was a
well-known writer I thought it as well to ascertain the fact
before I spoke to her.

Rose Waterford cast down her eyes demurely to give greater
effect to her reply.

"She gives luncheon-parties. You've only got to roar a
little, and she'll ask you."