You see he is such a good talker, and
Derrick--well, he is absorbed in his books; and then he has such
extravagant notions about war, he must be a very uncongenial
companion to the poor Major."
I devoured turbot in wrathful silence. Freda glanced at me.
"It is true, isn't it, that he has quite given up his life to
writing, and cares for nothing else?"
"Well, he has deliberately sacrificed his best chance of success by
leaving London and burying himself in the provinces," I replied
drily; "and as to caring for nothing but writing, why he never gets
more than two or three hours a day for it." And then I gave her a
minute account of his daily routine.
She began to look troubled.
"I have been misled," she said; "I had gained quite a wrong
impression of him."
"Very few people know anything at all about him," I said warmly;
"you are not alone in that."
"I suppose his next novel is finished now?" said Freda; "he told me
he had only one or two more chapters to write when I saw him a few
months ago on his way from Ben Rhydding. What is he writing now?"
"He is writing that novel over again," I replied.
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