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

liked him, he was not her kind of person, he was not worth thinking about…“But I’m not thinking about him ,” said Janette aloud. Neither she was. It was his words that haunted her…and they haunted her because they found an echo in her heart. She realized that for some time past she had been feeling a little dissatisfied with her books.
    Janetta sighed. She reminded herself that hundreds of thousands of people enjoyed her stories and showed their appreciation by borrowing her books from libraries—or, better still, buying them and keeping them in their bookcases. She reminded herself of the large “fan mail” that poured into Angleside from all over the world (not only letters, but also parcels of food from admirers in America and Canada and South Africa who were anxious to sustain her so that she might continue to delight them with her books). Two letters had arrived that very morning, one from Baltimore and the other from Birmingham—letters full of praise and thanksgiving. Janetta felt in need of encouragement so she took them out of her pocket and looked at them. They began in much the same fashion by assuring Miss Walters that the writer had never written to an author before but after that they differed. The Baltimore lady declared that Her Prince at Last had soothed and sustained her through a sharp attack of flu. The Birmingham lady had read Her Loving Heart and was extravagantly delighted with it. Janetta found it very pleasant to have these timely reminders that her stories were enjoyed by people in two hemispheres, but they did not remove her discomfort—not entirely. “Most people are saps,” that was what he had said, and it was only too obvious that the writers of these letters belonged to the great majority.
    Several days passed. Love Triumphant lay upon the desk in a half-finished condition while its author wandered in the woods.
    â€œCouldn’t you finish it?” asked Helen anxiously. If you could just finish it we might go away for a little holiday.”
    â€œI can’t finish it,” said Janetta.
    â€œFinish it— do ,” said Helen in wheedling tones. “There are only a few chapters to write and I can type them out in half no time. Then it will be off your mind.”
    â€œIt isn’t on my mind,” said Janetta.
    Helen pretended not to hear. “You could finish it in three days,” she declared. “You have only got to let Phyllis find the letter in the bureau drawer and discover the truth about Hector—that Hector has been faithful to her all along—and then the ending. You’re so good at endings.”
    â€œIt wouldn’t have happened like that.”
    â€œWhat do you mean? What would have happened?”
    â€œI don’t know,” replied Janetta. “It isn’t any use to try to think what would have happened because they aren’t real people.”
    â€œIt’s a story,” said Helen soothingly.
    â€œI want to write a story about real people,” Janetta said. She was quite surprised to hear herself make this statement because she had not thought of it before, but if she surprised herself it was nothing compared with the amazement and consternation her simple words engendered in her sister’s bosom.
    â€œA story about real people!” cried Helen in horror-stricken tones. “Janetta, what do you mean! You can’t think of changing your style!”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œIt would be ruin!” Helen declared. “It would be the end of everything. Think of your reputation! Think of your public! Think of your sales! You would lose all you’ve gained—all these years of building up! You can’t do it. It isn’t fair. I’ve toiled and moiled to make you what you are and now you propose to throw it all away.”
    â€œYou’ve toiled and moiled!” echoed Janetta.
    â€œOf course I have,” said Helen.