The Two Mrs. Abbotts by D. E. Stevenson Page A

replied Janetta. “The committee were very grateful to me. I signed some books for them.”
    â€œDid they give you tea?”
    â€œNot a very good tea,” replied Janetta, helping herself to another piece of cake.
    Helen purred. She was housekeeper as well as amanuensis and gardener and general bottle washer to her gifted sister and she took great pride in her jobs. Janetta would not get such a good tea anywhere as she got at home.
    It was not until Janetta had finished her second tea and had gone into the study to put in a few hours’ work upon Love Triumphant that she remembered Mr. Ash. She hesitated by the big solid desk, which was placed at exactly the right angle near the window, and an uncomfortable feeling assailed her. It was like a breath of cold air, blowing across her soul. “Soppy Stuff”—that was what he had said. But why should she care? He was an insufferable young man. She did not write for his entertainment. He was incapable of appreciating her books—that was all.
    Janette sat down, took up her pen, and turned over the pile of manuscript that lay before her on the table, and as she did so a passage caught her eye—it was a passage she had written that morning:
    â€œMy beautiful Phyllis,” cried Hector, throwing himself on his knees. “If all women were like you—so pure and good and innocent—how wonderful the world would be!”
    Janetta read it twice, and then, resting her chin on her hands, she gazed out of the window. After a little while, there was a knock on the door and Helen looked in. “Am I disturbing you?” she asked in hushed accents.
    â€œNo,” replied the author. “No, I was just thinking. I don’t feel like writing at the moment.”
    â€œYou’re tired!”
    â€œNo, not really.”
    â€œWhat is it, then?”
    There was no answer.
    â€œWhat is the matter?” asked Helen, coming into the room and looking at her sister in concern.
    â€œNothing at all,” said Janette. “But I think I shall leave it till tomorrow. There’s no hurry, is there?”
    Janetta slept well and arose feeling refreshed and ready for work. After breakfast she sat down at her desk, took out a clean sheaf of paper, and began to write. Her pen raced over the page in the pleasantest manner imaginable; she pulled the wires and the puppets danced to her tune. Hector proposed to Phyllis and was refused—he had proposed to her on page fifty-seven but there was no reason why he should not repeat the experiment—later, at the very end of the story he would propose again. The third time was lucky.
    Suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, Janetta’s pen faltered. She sniffed the air in a tentative manner and her eyes fell on a vase of sweet peas on the table beside her desk. (Helen had gone out early and picked them for her—it was a delicate attention.) The sun was shining in at the window and the warmth was drawing out the strong sweet perfume of the flowers—the room was filled with their scent. Janetta looked at the flowers and, as she looked, she seemed to see that young man’s face—that insufferable young man’s oafish face—and to hear his curiously husky voice: “I bet you could write something decent if you tried.” What a thing to say! How dared he say such a thing! “Something decent”—what an expression to use!
    Janetta was so upset that she laid down her pen and went out through the French window. She passed through the garden without a glance at the roses and the sweet peas, which were the pride of Helen’s heart, and opening the wicket gate at the top of the garden she wandered into the woods. The woods were peaceful and soothing; sunshine fell in golden rain between the leaves. Janetta sat down on a bank and tried to reason with herself. It was ridiculous to allow that young man to interfere with her work—quite ridiculous. She had not