“I don’t see,” said Sir George, “that there’d be much to put in a biography. She didn’t do anything. Just lived up there in the east wing and poured out all this stuff about fairies. It wasn’t a life.” “As a matter of fact, it isn’t a biography. It’s a critical study. But of course she interests me. We went to look at her grave.” This was the wrong thing to say. Sir George’s face darkened. His brows, which were sandy, drew down over his plummy nose. “That unspeakable female who came here—she had the impudence to hector me—to read me a lecture—on the state of that grave. Said its condition was
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