The Two Mrs. Abbotts by D. E. Stevenson

unpleasant—perhaps she intended to ask for a rise in royalties on Janetta’s next book—and he wondered what he could say to head her off. Miss Walters was Janetta’s agent, and to do her justice Janetta could not have had a better one. Mr. Abbott was aware that Miss Walters had got the upper hand of him twice—he wished he had sent Spicer to talk to Miss Walters. Spicer was ruthless, he was not easily rattled. The silence had lasted so long that Mr. Abbott felt impelled to break it.
    â€œThe book is selling well,” said Mr. Abbott. “The third edition is almost sold out. When may we expect the next one?”
    â€œThat’s just it,” said Miss Walters in gloomy tones.
    â€œNot coming along well?” asked Mr. Abbott in surprise, for he was so used to the regular appearance of manuscripts from the pen of Janetta that he could scarcely believe there was any difficulty in their production.
    â€œIt was coming along splendidly,” Miss Walters replied. “It was the best of all, I thought. We had decided to call it Love Triumphant .”
    Mr. Abbott winced, but he said bravely, “Quite in the best tradition, Miss Walters.”
    â€œQuite,” she agreed. “We were both very happy about the book—and then, quite suddenly, Janetta lost interest in it.”
    â€œStale,” suggested Mr. Abbott. “All writers have periods of staleness.”
    â€œNot Janetta,” said Miss Walters. “Janetta never gets stale.”
    This was perfectly true. Janetta had never suffered from any of the ills of the spirit that beset the owner of an artistic temperament. Janetta’s temperament was equable. She worked at fixed hours. Stories gushed from her pen like water from a well-behaved bath tap. She wrote at high speed and her sister collected the precious sheets and typed them. The process went as smoothly as a factory—which indeed it was.
    Miss Walters explained all this to Mr. Abbott (in her own words, of course) and Mr. Abbott listened patiently, for that was his business.
    â€œI see,” he said at last. “Yes, I see…and now she has stopped writing and you can’t understand why.”
    Miss Walters nodded.
    Mr. Abbott was more sympathetic now, for he perceived that Miss Walters was really very much distressed and he was a kind-hearted man. “You had better tell me all you know,” said Mr. Abbott in soothing tones. “We’ll put our heads together and see what can be done.”
    â€œBut I know nothing ,” declared Miss Walters in agonized accents. “I only know that Janetta is quite different. I can’t think what has upset her.”
    ***
    It was not surprising that Miss Walters was all at sea, for Janetta had told her nothing. As a matter of fact it would have been difficult for Janetta to explain what was the matter with her even if she had wanted to do so. Mr. Ash was at the bottom of it, of course, but Mr. Ash was not the whole cause of the trouble, for Janetta was so secure in her position as a successful novelist that his criticisms of her books had not worried her unduly—not at the time. She had been interested rather than annoyed. It seemed odd that this young man should be allergic to her stories—but of course he was a very odd young man. They were both very odd, and the tea party had a curiously dreamlike feeling about it. But, in spite of all that had been said, they finished tea quite amicably and parted politely. Immediately afterwards Janetta was surrounded by a crowd of Wandlebury ladies, who had been waiting eagerly to speak to her. She was petted and flattered to an almost embarrassing extent, and her books were lauded to the skies. She had then returned home, quite pleased with herself, to partake of another much better and more sustaining tea with her sister, in her own comfortable drawing room.
    â€œDid everything go off well?” Helen had inquired.
    â€œVery well,”