The Color of Death Read Free Page A

not in the least mindful of this, pressed on with what she had so boldly begun. “Finally,” said she, “we have in common the vocation of literature.”
    He looked at her slyly. “Ah, could one so young as you be an author?”
    “Not yet, but I am preparing myself for a career similar to your own.”
    “Well, in that case, I have two bits of advice for you. First, do not neglect your Latin, for there is nothing quite so good for style as familiarity with that language and its grammar. My second piece of advice is more practical: If you are truly serious about writing, then you must choose a pen name of the masculine sort, for as a female you will greatly limit your chances of acceptance — by editors as well as by the general public.”
    She found this quite unacceptable. “There I must disagree with you,” she began.
    Yet she never finished, for Mr. Johnson turned from Clarissa to me, chastising her by ignoring her obviously and completely. “Now,” he said rather pointedly to me (and not to Clarissa), “what of this letter from Sir John? I do hope he is not communicating to me in his official capacity.”
    “Nothing of the kind, sir,” said I, as Clarissa at last fell silent. “It is naught but an invitation.”
    Again that sly look from him. “Are you then in the habit of reading the missives you deliver?”
    I produced the letter in question and handed it to him. He wiped his hands thoroughly on his napkin, preparing to read it.
    “No sir, I am not in the habit of reading them. I am, however, in the habit of taking them in dictation.”
    He chuckled approvingly at my response and pulled open the letter at the seal. So poor was Johnson’s eyesight that he was forced to hold whatever he wished to read at no more than three inches from his face. Thus it was that he perused the contents of the letter. I had seen all this before and was not in the least surprised, but when I glanced over at Clarissa, I noted the look of consternation upon her face. I feared in that instant she might make some unwanted exclamation of sympathy, but, catching her eye, I shook my head, and she kept silent.
    “Well and good/’ said Mr. Johnson as he put down the letter. “I should be happy to come at the date and hour which he has specified. Ten days hence — that should give me time and opportunity to do any rearranging that need be done.” Then did he pause, or perhaps hesitate, as if taking a moment to reach a decision. “You do not have an invitation for that fellow Bos well, do you?”
    “Nooo,” said I, “but one might be written for him if you wished
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    It SO.
    “On the contrary,” said he, “I would not wish it so. As it happens, he is down from Edinburgh, and he manages to beg invitations to every dinner to which I’m invited. It seems that no matter where I go he is there, asking questions, drawing me out on every conceivable question. It is most annoying. Do ask Sir John not to invite the fellow, will you?”
    I gave a proper little bow. “Very good, sir.”
    “Shall I write out a reply to Sir John’s letter?”
    “Oh no, Mr. Johnson, I shall convey your response to him.” I paused but a moment. “And so, with your permission, we shall take our leave of you.”
    “Good day to you, young sir. And to you, young lady,” said he to Clarissa, “I shall repeat my advice. First, work at your Latin, and second, adopt a male pen name.”
    Would she insist on pressing her argument? I turned and saw her performing a careful curtsey. Reassured, I took her arm and guided her from the breakfast room and down the hall to the door. It was not Frank Barber but Miss Williams who was there to see us out. That she did with a curt “good day,” pausing not an instant to wave us out to Fleet Street.
    “I went too far, didn’t I?” The words were out of Clarissa’s mouth the moment that the door slammed shut behind us.
    “Well …” Was I to tell her the truth? Was I to say that she had embarrassed me, irritated