"
"Yes," we said, moving our leg--"no, thank you."
"So you see the only possible _point d'appui_ was to
begin with a description of the inside of the boiler."
We nodded.
"A masterly thing," we said.
"My wife," interrupted the Great Novelist, who was sitting
with the head of a huge Danish hound in his lap, sharing
his buttered toast with the dog while he adjusted a set
of trout flies, "is a great worker."
"Do you always work on that method?" we asked.
"Always," she answered. "For _Frederica of the Factory_
I spent six months in a knitting mill. For _Marguerite
of the Mud Flats_ I made special studies for months and
months."
"Of what sort?" we asked.
"In mud. Learning to model it. You see for a story of
that sort the first thing needed is a thorough knowledge
of mud--all kinds of it."
"And what are you doing next?" we inquired.
"My next book," said the Lady Novelist, "is to be a study
--tea?--of the pickle industry--perfectly new ground."
"A fascinating field," we murmured.
"And quite new. Several of our writers have done the
slaughter-house, and in England a good deal has been done
in jam. But so far no one has done pickles. I should
like, if I could," added Ethelinda Afterthought, with
the graceful modesty that is characteristic of her, "to
make it the first of a series of pickle novels, showing,
don't you know, the whole pickle district, and perhaps
following a family of pickle workers for four or five
generations.
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