Free Angel by Elizabeth Taylor Page B

glad to be left alone with Angel as she sat down on the edge of her chair and glanced severely about the room. She was late for her appointment, for she had been lost in London. Paddington Station had been complete confusion to her, and when she had reached Bloomsbury, with so many pauses to study the street-map she had bought, she seemed to have hurried from one square to another, like someone in a nightmare, and then all round this last square looking for the right number.
    Theo saw her pale face glistening, guessed that she had been late and anxious, imagined her walking too quickly through the hot streets. Her boots were dusty and her hair untidy. He often noticed that people visiting London invariably got themselves covered with smuts which Londoners managed to escape.
    He rang for some tea, giving her time to get back her breath and look about her. Then he said: “Don’t think me impertinent, but I really expected someone a good deal older.”
    â€œDo you mean that now you won’t publish my story?”
    â€œNo, of course, my remark had nothing to do with that.”
    â€œWhat had it to do with?” Angel asked suspiciously.
    â€œA publisher is bound to make conjectures about an unknown writer’s age. It may seem irrelevant to you, but we should be less willing to risk ourselves over a first novel by someone of seventy than we should if it were by someone with years of writing ahead of them. ‘Under or over?’ we ask ourselves. That means ‘forty’.”
    â€œDid you think I was over forty, then?”
    â€œWe gave up guessing. You might have been a bald-headed old man for all we knew.”
    He saw her stiffen. She lifted her chin. He realised that she had great pride and not a trace of humour in her. “‘Man’?” she repeated. “You knew my name. I shouldn’t have deceived you.”
    I must never be facetious, he thought. He poured out the tea and gave it to her.
    â€œDo you think you will write another novel?”
    â€œOh, yes. I can let you have another one in a few months.”
    â€œSo soon? You must be careful not to tire yourself too quickly, or write yourself out.”
    â€œI should never do that,” she said simply and drank her tea.
    â€œWhat is the theme of the new book?”
    â€œIt is about an actress.”
    â€œAre you interested in the theatre, Miss Deverell?”
    â€œI have never been to one.”
    â€œThen you are a great reader, perhaps?”
    â€œNo, I don’t read much. I haven’t got any books, and nowadays I am always writing.”
    â€œBut even so, most authors take some interest in the works of others. Is there no Public Library you could join?”
    A little colour came into her cheeks and she said, “I don’t think I should want to.”
    â€œThen if I send you some novels, will you read them?”
    â€œWhat will they be about?” she asked cautiously.
    â€œI can’t make a hazard at your tastes, unless you can tell me something you have read and liked.”
    â€œI quite liked Shakespeare,” she admitted. “Except when he is trying to be funny.”
    Mr Gilbright got up hastily and walked to the window. He appeared to be deep in meditation as he looked out over the square. “And?” he asked gravely, after a while.
    â€œI liked The Three Musketeers , although I have only read bits of it in French when I was at school. And a book about a German baron who kept his wife shut up in a tower, but would never allow her to be seen by any other person. He took her meals to her himself and spent hours brushing her hair.”
    â€œHow did it turn out?”
    â€œThe book was taken away from me before I reached the end. I had to make up the rest for myself.”
    He realised the hunger she had suffered; the deprivations of her wilful, ranging imagination, and said, “I should like to know what you invented.”
    â€œThat she died and