‘She seems quite happy,’ he ventured. ‘Seems, well, yes…’ Fabian found Prudence’s tone disconcerting; it was as if no woman could be really happy even when she was being taken out to dinner. He felt he ought to say something profound, but, naturally enough, nothing profound came out. ‘I mean, she leads a useful kind of life—work in the parish and that kind of thing,’ he went on vaguely. ‘But she’s really no good at parish work—she’s wasted in that kind of life. She has great gifts, you know. She could have written books.’ ‘Written books? Oh, good heavens!’
