’ Trodger eyed her with suspicion. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. He rolled onto his belly, freeing himself from her hands, pushing her away. She had heard of women journalists, women writers, and so forth; but she was not even admitted to the presence of the editors she demanded to see, and by no means sure that if she had been she could have done any work they might have given her. “I won’t pretend,” he said, “that this is an accident. Though there is something to be said for your idea of a secret convent, at least as a hiding place.
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