Last night I began talking to Pauline Smith about her work, though I had some difficulty in getting her to talk. She gave me a notion of a half-formed scheme for a novel—nothing really but a dim idea. I enlarged it and straightened it out for her, and by my enthusiasm lighted hers a little, indeed much. I poured practical advice into her for an hour, such as I don’t think she could have got from any other living man, and such as I would have given my head for 15 years ago. I told her exactly what to think about today and it was arranged that she should report to me to-night how far she had proceeded and that we should go further with the plot. After dinner to-night she began to read. 11 is true it was one of my books. I gave her a chance and waited for her to put the book down. Then after half an hour I said: T shan’t let Pauline read any more of my books. She doesn’t do anything else.’ She smiled and murmured: ‘Just let me finish this.’ I played a sonata, and then ostentatiously waited. No sign. She kept on reading till 9.30, and then went straight to bed.1
KeywordsSouth AFRICAN Village Life South African Childhood Evening Prayer Leather Glove
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