In her hand she
carried a small fan, a fragile toy of lace and satinwood. Something
snapped as she entered the room; she had crushed the fan into a dozen
pieces.'
"There, what do you think of that for an opening? It tells you at once
that there's something afoot."
"I don't read novels," said Caiaphas sullenly.
"But just think what a resource they are," exclaimed the author, "on long
winter evenings, or perhaps when you are laid up with a strained ankle--a
thing that might happen to any one; or if you were staying in a house-
party with persistent wet weather and a stupid hostess and insufferably
dull fellow-guests, you would just make an excuse that you had letters to
write, go to your room, light a cigarette, and for three-and-ninepence
you could plunge into the society of Beatrice Lady Cullumpton and her
set. No one ought to travel without one or two of my novels in their
luggage as a stand-by. A friend of mine said only the other day that he
would as soon think of going into the tropics without quinine as of going
on a visit without a couple of Mark Mellowkents in his kit-bag. Perhaps
sensation is more in your line. I wonder if I've got a copy of _The
Python's Kiss_.
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