This man was apparently not sure whether he was Meysey Hill or not. 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. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman’s independent career so much more difficult than a clever man’s. She found him reclined, watching television in a small guest room hidden in a back wing of the massive house.
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