First(?) published 4th December 1935*
5,125 words
(First read 17/11/2014)
To call this story 'slight' would be a serious understatement: if you breathe on it too heavily while reading, it all but vanishes.
* I found this story in the 04/12/1935 edition of The Courier, a newspaper published in Taunton (Somerset, UK), where it was described as 'published by special arrangement', which I'm assuming means this was its first outing. It later appeared in the 08/07/1936 edition of The Teesdale Mercury, so it's possible it had been 'doing the rounds' of provincial British papers before appearing in the aforementioned Courier.
Anyway, below is the story reproduced in full ~ to the best of my knowledge ~ for the first time in 79 years, free gratis and for all the world to see and be very very mildly amused by. (You can see the first page of the Mercury version here.)
THE DOROTHY CRYSTAL SYNDICATE by E. F. Benson
It was a fine moment when the Editor of
that very largely-circulated magazine, Cosy Corner,
not only accepted the short story which Dick Cundall had sent him
(with a stamped and directed envelope inside) but intimated that he
would be glad to see any further work. This particular story was of
the most degraded description and concerned a sweet young girl who
lived with an aged and doddering father, and was like a sunbeam about
their two squalid rooms. They were incredibly poor, but the sweet
young girl's optimistic view of life and her touching belief in the
beneficence of Providence, made them both as happy as the day was
long. She sold flowers in Piccadilly Circus, and had a refined
nature. Eventually her grandfather turned out to be an Earl, which
showed how right Hermione was in pinning her faith to the beneficence
of Providence.
The
origin of this loathsome tale, thought trivial in itself, was proved
to be of momentous significance and strangely affected the lives of
three people. Dick had been annoyed with his sister one evening
because instead of playing draughts with him as usual after dinner,
she had sat mopping her eyes over The Old Curiosity Shop.
When she had gone damp and red-eyed to bed, he had taken up the
book, with rising nausea, read a chapter or two concerning Little
Nell and her grandfather, and had sat up half the night in writing a
similar assault on the emotions. The second half containing the glad
tidings that her father was an Earl was added on the principle that
though some readers like Violet herself loved to wallow naked and
unashamed in sheer sentimentality, others adored the aristocracy. To
such insignificant beginnings, steeped in the spirit of mockery, the
Dorothy Crystal Syndicate owed its origin.
Dick had always
wanted to be an author, but a rebellious parent had put him at the
age of eighteen into an office in the City, where now, seven years
later, he earned his living. His father had died soon after his
entry there, and the money which he had left to be divided equally
between his two children enabled them jointly with the addition of
Dick's salary to live comfortably enough in a small flat off the
Brompton Road. Violet at this time was a very pretty girl of twenty,
devoted to her brother but with no use for any other member of his
sex; and her sentimentality, which was of the deepest dye, she
indulged solely over cinemas, theatres, and books. She did not in
the least desire that life should be like that, it was merely that
she loved these emotions as exhibited in art, and when she came out
of the picture-palace or shut her book, she was a young lady of an
extraordinarily practical turn of mind. She ran the flat with the
greatest ability, providing extreme comfort with notable economy,
doing her marketing herself, and finding an exquisite pleasure in
keeping down the house-books while still preserving the high standard
of excellent meals and perennial hot water.
A wet Sunday
enabled Dick to finish this awful little tale, and in the afternoon
he read it to Violet.
“It's
a parody, of course,” he said, “but it's really not much more
ridiculous than the stories you are so fond of. It's called Lady
Hermione: there's richness for
you.”
“That's a
splendid name,” said Violet enthusiastically. “Wait a minute
till I put the kettle on the boil. Then I can enjoy it thoroughly.”
Dick was soon deep
in his reading and giggling at the more atrocious passages, when he
heard a stifled sob from his sister.
“Dick, darling,
don't laugh,” she said huskily. “It's too lovely! It isn't a
parody at all. But if Hermione's going die, I don't think I shall be
able to bear it.”
Dick stared at her.
“You're perfectly
incredible,” he said. “It was meant to be funny, and there you
are snivelling.”
“Never mind me,”
said Violet. “Just go on, and please don't laugh any more.”
The story was not a
long one, and presently he came to its happy conclusion. Violet
dried her eyes.
“Perfect!”
she said. “And an Earl. That is nice. Of course, it would have
been lovely if she had died; I should have cried all evening. But
it's much better as it is.”
A hissing noise
interrupted her, and she flew to the fireplace.
“And the water's
been boiling over,” she cried with a stern relapse into practical
affairs. “How careless of me.”
The practical side
of Violet's nature continued in the ascendant over their tea. Though
the 'Lady Hermione' had roused all her deepest sentimentality, there
was another side to that lady.
“Of
course you must have it published, Dick,” she said. “Any editor
of a popular magazine would jump at it. It's exactly what the
ordinary reader wants nowadays, something to make him utterly
miserable first, and then quite comfortable afterwards. People are
getting tired of dreary analytical accounts of what typists think
about when they're going home on the top of an omnibus. They want
things to happen: great romantic things. Of course there's no love
interest in Lady Hermione
at present—“
“That's all
there's ever going to be of her,” said Dick. “Why I only wrote
it to show you the kind of slosh you like.”
“You've
shown me a great deal more then by accident,” said she. “You've
shown me you have got the trick—of course I'm talking now from the
commercial point of view—you've got the trick of writing what the
average reader (that's me) adores. You must instantly send it to
some popular magazine; Cosy Corner
would be as good as any.”
“I wouldn't let
that rubbish appear under my name for a hundred pounds,” said Dick.
“Supposing somebody in the office came across it?”
“Oh, they won't
give you a hundred pounds,” said Violet. “More likely two
guineas. And you needn't send your name at all. Dick Cundall isn't
a good name for that sort of author. Just sign it D.C. with this
address. As for pay, just take whatever they offer you. It's the
appearance of the story that I want.”
Violet
was perfectly right about its acceptation by the Editor of Cosy
Corner, and she laughed with
pleasure at the request that he should be permitted to see more of
D.C.'s work. She had been equally correct in her estimate of what
the Editor proposed to pay for it.
“We won't let him
on another time with that starvation wage,” she said. “But never
mind the money; that's a mere detail at present. Write to him and
say you accept it, but that you only sell him first serial rights,
and that the story remains your property. Or you'd better let me do
that for you: I'm much more business-like.”
“Rather, as long
as you give me the two guineas,” said Dick. “Now let's play
draughts.”
Violet saw that he
was looking about for a cigarette, and flew to put the box by his
elbow. That sort of attention, she had observed, always paid.
“There you are,”
she said. “Now, Dick, do be kind, and let me talk to you for ten
minutes. I'm bursting with ideas; you've no notion of how I've been
thinking.
“This story will
appear, and I bet you a box of cigarettes that within a fortnight, Mr
John Dacres will write to D.C. repeating his request to see more of
his work, and if possible more about Lady Hermione. Now let's be
business-like. Do you take that bet?”
“Yes,” said
Dick yawning.
“Well then, I
want you to let me reply to that saying that you have written another
story about Hermione, but that you are afraid—that is, D.C. is
afraid—that a reward of two guineas is not a great temptation to
you.”
“I thought you
said money was only a detail,” said Dick.
“Yes, but details
have to be attended to,” said she.
“Then another
detail is that I haven't written a further story about Hermione,”
said he.
“Oh, but Dick,
you will have by the time I tell him so,” said Violet. “You
must! I promise you that you won't get less than ten pounds for it.
It won't take you long; you wrote the other in a few hours. And ten
pounds is ten pounds.”
“But supposing it
isn't?” asked Dick. “I mean supposing Mr. Dacres doesn't give me
ten pounds for it?”
Violet did not
hesitate.
“Then I will,”
she said. “I shan't have to, because he will. And you won't have
to invent a story; I've got it all ready for you. All you'll have to
is to tell it in just the superb way you told the first one.”
Dick threw away the
end of his cigarette.
“What are you up
to, Vi?” he asked.
“I can't tell you
all that I'm up to,” she said, “because in the first place you
would laugh at me, and call me mad; and in the second, I never make
cut-and-dried plans for long ahead. I see the next step quite
clearly, and that is that when Mr. Dacres asks you, as he will, for
another Hermione story, and when you tell him that you won't take
less than ten pounds for it, you must have one read to send him.”
“And what's the
story?” asked Dick. “You said you had it ready.”
Violet's eyes grew
sentimental for a moment.
“Oh, it's
lovely!” she said. “Lady Hermione's father has become an
earl—the Earl of Tintagel, I think—and they now live in Park
Lane. She goes to a ball, or perhaps she gives one, and meets a very
interesting-looking young man with coal-black hair, who is lame—“
Dick shouted with
laughter.
“Not the strong,
silent Englishman again?” he asked.
“You may call him
so if you like. He is strong and silent, and Hermione feels there is
something very wonderful about him. As he goes away he holds both
her hands for a moment, and gazes into her eyes and says 'Pshaw!' to
himself. What a suspense.”
“It seems to me
that you're embarking on a serial,” said Dick.
“I don't say that
I'm not,” she said. “But that depends on all sorts of other
things. All I want you to do at present is to write the second story
on the lines I've given you. And whatever happens, you'll get ten
pounds. It may be more—but it will certainly be that. And that's
only the beginning, Dick.”
Dick had the
firmest belief in his sister's practical ability, and he had never
seen her more in earnest.
“Go on,” he
said. “Tell me some more of your plans.”
“My dear, I can't
tell you much,” she said. “But one thing I have quite made up my
mind abut. You only signed yourself D.C., didn't you?”
“That's all.”
“Well, D.C.
mustn't be Dick Cundall. That would never do as the name of the
author of Lady Hermione. I've been pondering very carefully,
for the answer to 'What's in a name?' is 'A very great deal.' And I
don't think—of course, I should be delighted to consider any
suggestions—I don't think you could better 'Dorothy Crystal.' In
fact, when I write to Mr. Dacres telling him that there is another
Hermione story I shall sign it Dorothy Crystal.”
“Lor! What a
name!” said Dick.
“I'm glad you
like it. She's just right for the author of Lady Hermione.”
Violet's forecast
was fulfilled with an accuracy that would have done credit to a major
prophet. Within a week after the appearance of Dick's first story,
Mr. Dacres wrote again to ask if D.C. could not send him, on the same
terms, another little tale about Lady Hermione. Violet thereupon
replied with a most able letter, stating frankly that Dorothy Crystal
(for so she signed herself) had another story just completed but that
she was probably sending it elsewhere, as two guineas was scarcely a
price that she cared to accept. Mr. Dacres instantly wrote asking
whether he might see the story, and having read it, decide whether he
wished to purchase it at a higher rate than was at all usual. Would
Miss Crystal ring him up before 11 a.m. next morning and give her
reply.
Violet, as she read
this, became aware that she had come to cross-roads, and instead of
ringing him up as requested, or going out to her marketing, perused
his letter again, trying to conjecture exactly how he had felt when
he wrote it. If Dorothy Crystal declined to send the sumptuous
typewritten manuscript (sumptuous it was: Dick had produced a
marvellous, strong, silent Englishman) it was possible that Mr.
Dacres might meanly acquiesce in her decision and ring off. In that
case she would have to pay Dick ten pounds and what was more
excruciating, the columns of Cosy Corner, easily the best for
the purpose, would be closed against him. On the other hand her
acute sense detected a certain anxiety in Mr. Dacre's note; he
clearly wanted to see the story, and she was most desirous of knowing
how great his interest in it was, for it would be a splendid
endorsement to her own estimate of the very marketable quality of
Dick's work, if so practical a judge as the Editor of Cosy Corner
bought it at the price she proposed to ask without seeing it. That
would add immensely to her confidence for the future.
Violet spread all
these problems before her mind and regarded them like a panorama.
She glanced also at the clock which was verging on 11 a.m.
“I'll chance it,”
she said to herself. “And I won't even ring him up. I believe
he'll ring me up. That would be much better.”
It was almost with
a sob of relief that she heard the telephone bell tinkle, and a crisp
voice asked if Miss Crystal was in. Violet controlled her trembling
lips and said she was Miss Crystal and who ws it please … And it
was he.
Mr. Dacres was a
little abrupt at first. He had expected to be rung up by Miss
Crystal. To which Miss Crystal without a tremor said how stupid it
was of her, but she had quite forgotten. And that was a lie, because
she had been thinking of nothing whatever else.
“About that
story,” said Mr. Dacres.
Violet gulped and
then spoke.
“Yes, so kind of
you, Mr. Dacres, to take an interest in it,” she said. “But I
don't think I'll send it to you on approval. In fact I've almost—oh,
well never mind that.”
Mr. Dacre's voice
became a little anxious and very cordial.
“I should very
much like to see it,” said he. “It is, I believe, about your
charming heroine, Lady Hermione.”
“Oh, how nice of
you,” said Violet. “Yes, it's about Hermione.”
“And what are you
asking for it?” said Mr. Dacres.
“Ten guineas,”
said Violet. Guineas sounded more professional than pounds.
“I'll take it,”
said Mr. Dacres. “Will you kindly send it round?”
“Certainly,”
said Violet. “And would you kindly confirm your purchase by
letter, at ten guineas for magazine appearance in Cosy Corner.”
Violet instantly
sent it off, with a small piece of pretty riband holding the sheets
together.
The development of
Dorothy Crystal grew swiftly. Mr. Dacres (by telephone) was charmed
with Lady Hermione's Ball, but, with all deference, was not
the gap between the first chapter and that rather large? Her
readers, he felt sure, would want to know what happened between the
elevation of her father to the peerage and her full-blown appearance
in Park Lane. There might be much interesting—indeed, absorbing
romance in the début of Hermione into London society. (Mr. Dacres
hinted at highly-coloured episodes which made Violet's mouth water.)
Could not Miss Crystal interpolate some such chapter, since two
chapters of the material to be dealt with could not be worthily
treated in one, between the first chapter already published, and that
of the delightful, the inimitable ball? And then, again, readers
would be wild to know the unfolding of the love-interest so
thrillingly adumbrated at the close of the chapter about the ball.
In fact, Mr. Dacres had a proposition to make to Miss Crystal, which
he hoped would meet with her approval, and would, he felt sure, be
advantageous to them both. The matter could be discussed more easily
in an interview than over the telephone-wire and if she would be so
good as to appoint him a time, he would be most pleased to wait upon
her. Violet did not hesitate for a moment. She instantly said that
she would expect Mr. Dacres in half-an-hour's time, rang off, and sat
down to consider what she had done, and what she intended to do.
What she had done
was definitely to assume the personality of Dorothy Crystal and the
authorship of Dick's stories. What she intended to do was to consent
to provide not only these three chapters, but any amount more. She
felt certain that Mr. Dacres wanted her (Dick) to write a complete
serial story, and, now assured of his anxiety to obtain that, she
meant to screw him up to the highest possible figure, and undertake
to supply it. If she consulted Dick about it first he would almost
certainly say that he couldn't and wouldn't do anything of the kind,
and though she might ultimately persuade him, it would require a
great deal of time and energy. It was far better then to confront
him with the fait accompli of a contract in which large prospective
sums of money would speak for themselves. As for the identification
of herself with Dorothy Crystal, she had no qualms about the wisdom
of that, for she rightly felt that it was a great asset to the scheme
that a young and very pretty girl (it would have been rank injustice
to herself not to acknowledge that) should be the author of the
romantic history of Hermione rather than a stockbroker's clerk. Mr.
Dacres might easily propose giving an interview in Cosy Corner
with the gifted young authoress, illustrated by a photograph of
herself, and a corner of the study where she worked. It would all be
wonderful advertisement. Besides, Dick had said that not for a
hundred pounds would he let it be known that he was the author.
Violet dismissed
all qualms, and started into a whirlwind of activity. She told her
servant that a visitor would presently arrive and ask for Miss
Crystal, and was to be shown in. She put on an extremely becoming
blouse, and prettily disordered her hair. She pictured to herself
the character and tastes she was to assume, and in accordance with
these put a copy of 'The Rosary' on the music-rest of the piano, hid
the cigarettes, took the daffodils out of the vase where she had just
placed them, in order that she might be discovered arranging them,
and laid a copy of Shakespeare open by them.
Mr. Dacres took
away with him, an hour later, a whirl of charming impressions, a
signed contract, a sheaf of short-hand notes, and a photograph. Of
them all the charming impression, or perhaps the photograph which he
several times furtively regarded under the lid of his despatch-case,
affected him personally the most, and being an enthusiastic and
impressionable young gentleman, he longed to be at work on his
shorthand notes, in order to do homage and justice to the delicious
subject of them. From a popular point of view the topic teemed with
romance; never had he heard such a telling tale as that which Dorothy
Crystal had so ingenuously unfolded to him. What a name, too! How
expressive of her sweet, almost old-fashioned simplicity! Her
orphaned childhood, living with the dear, old aunt in the country,
amid wallflowers and beehives and cowslip-wine, her early love of
scribbling, which dated from the time when Aunt Dorcas used to read
The Wide Wide World to her, sitting in her armchair of winter
evenings by the open hearth, her determination to be one day a writer
of pure and elevating books, which should show her readers the
loveliness of life and the heights to which human nature could rise,
all these, while making Mr. Dacres feel rather sick, were clearly of
the highest value for the article which he was planning, and which
should arouse the most widespread interest in Dorothy Crystal. Then
how deeply touching was the death of Aunt Dorcas, the sale of the
beehives and wallflowers, and her move to London with that
dearly-loved brother, and their poverty until he got a situation in
the city. The brother was evidently a good fellow, fond of her, but
not in the least understanding her, or her marvellous gift; he had
laughed (how sweetly she said it) at the story of Hermione's early
struggles, before wealth and title came, and pooh-poohed the idea
that any editor would consider it for the humblest of his columns …
And what a delicious picture she had made arranging daffodils with
her Shakespeare open on the table, and that mellifluous song 'The
Rosary' on the piano. His practised fountain-pen itched to be at
work on so promising a subject.
Besides the softer
emotions which were stimulated by Dorothy Crystal's charms, Mr.
Dacre's business instincts were well satisfied with the contract he
had made. From an artistic point of view he had nothing but the
supremest contempt for the instalments he had seen of Lady Hermione;
to put it tersely, it was the most appalling drivel he had ever read,
but his professional eyes saw a fortune in it. He had therefore
bought the serial rights of Dorothy Crystal's novel The Lady
Hermione, which was to appear weekly in the Cosy Corner,
and, what pleased him more, he had acquired the book-rights of the
same, which was to be published on the conclusion of its serial
appearance. It was true that only two chapters of the work were yet
in existence, but he was perfectly satisfied that the girl who had
written the account of Lady Hermione's ball, and her first meeting
with Roger Falconhurst (such was the encouraging name of the strong,
silent one) would produce a story which would at once soar
pre-eminent among 'best sellers'. He had an extraordinary flair in
gauging the public taste, and he was convinced that in Dorothy
Crystal (properly advertised) he had discovered a coming popular
idol. He had just started a small publishing house of his own and
his autumn list would be headed by Lady Hermione, already known to
many readers through Cosy Corner. From a business point of
view he felt he had never done a better morning's work.
His immediate
business now was to rouse popular interest in Dorothy Crystal by
means of the interview and photograph she had given him. That was a
labour if not at present of love, of a very ardent admiration. Not
only was she a very pretty girl (the photograph did her justice) with
a most attractive story, but had a very shrewd brain behind those
child-like blue eyes, and unbobbed wealth of golden hair. She was
the most interesting type of the modern girl who, with all her
adorable femininity was well able to take care of herself. He took
another long look at her photograph, and began his panegyric.
Dick was informed,
on his return that evening to the flat, of the soaring flights he had
been pledged to in his absence. Violet gave him the most delicious
dinner, intending to spring these disclosures on him when he was
thoroughly well-fed. But roast partridge following white-bait
aroused his suspicions.
“Why this
opulence?” he said. “Why this luxury? I believe you've got
something to tell me which I shan't like.”
“We are opulent,
Dick,” she said. “At least we shall be if you are sensible.”
“Something about
Hermione,” said the astute Dick.
“My dear, how
clever you are!” said Violet. “Well, this morning Mr. Dacres
came to see me—“
Dick behaved very
well. Naturally he was furious at first. Naturally he said he would
not write a single line, and that since Violet had become Dorothy
Crystal she might take on the engagement she had made for him. But
anger gave place to amazement as the narrative proceeded and Violet
acquainted him with the financial aspects of the case.
“And I'll make up
all her story,” she said. “You'll only have to write it down.
Shall I begin? Then you can get in two hours' work before you go to
bed.”
The appearance of
The Lady Hermione in the autumn amply fulfilled her
publisher's expectations, and Dorothy Crystal leaped to her throne.
Edition after edition was called for and absorbed, and Violet spent
half the day in signing autograph albums and answering appreciative
letters, and writing criticisms on the innumerable manuscripts which
young and aspiring authoresses sent her. But pleasant as all this
was, the entire falsity of her position made her shiver like an east
wind that chilled the flattering sunshine. It was true that Dick was
perfectly content with the situation; she had already contracted for
him, with his eager approval, to write a successor to The Lady
Hermione, for which he would receive a very notable sum in
advance on account of royalties, and those fruits of popularity were,
he assured her, quite sufficient for him. And after all, the boom,
so he pointed out, was largely due to Violet, it was she who had
supplied him with all the events of Lady Hermione's career, with
episode of the abandoned marquis who passed himself off as a bachelor
and tried to marry her, with the misunderstanding between her and
Roger, and his total disappearance from the scene for a year and a
half, with his return lamer and stronger and more silent than ever,
with his gaining of the V.C. in the war, and his arrival, wounded, at
a base hospital in France, where, of course, Hermione was a nurse,
and finally with their marriage at St. Peter's, Eaton-square, and the
birth of her baby. Dick would never have invented these occurrences
if left to himself; he had only clothed them in the robes of
narrative when they were forcibly thrust into his hands by Violet.
Violet's east wind
was far more biting than that. She and John Dacres had fallen in
love with each other, and the bitter gale that howled round her was
the fact that either she must refuse him, or she must tell him that
from their first interview when she had invented Aunt Dorcas and the
beehives down to the present moment, all that he had built on his
knowledge of her was reared on a foundation of solid lies.
She was alone this
morning in their flat. Dick, who had retired from office work in the
city, was out getting tickets for their journey to the Italian Lakes,
where the scene of the next novel was to be largely laid, and she was
beginning the draughting of the first chapters. But his nightmare of
a situation came between her and her work; she could not concentrate
on the villainous count, nor feel her customary ecstasy at the
picturing of his young ward who made sunshine in such incredible
quantities for all who came within [the] rays of her beams. And they
were to start to-morrow without even telling John that they were
going. Life really was becoming powerfully like the sort of
existence which it was so pleasant to read about. But then any
proper author could be trusted to invent a blissful solution to these
heart-rending perplexities, and rack her brains as she would, she
could not think of one. Celibacy, or exposure (and, if exposure,
possibly both) inexorably faced her.
So deep she was in
depressed meditation that she did not hear the door-bell ring, and
John Dacres was announced. He appeared to be in excellent spirits,
which was unkind of him.
“I just brought
some letters for you that came to the office,” he said. “More
adoring epistles, I suppose. And what rot gets into the papers! I
saw a paragraph this morning that you were going to the Italian
Lakes.”
With a pang of
annoyance Violet remembered that she had given this information to an
interviewer yesterday. But she was so accustomed now to false
positions that she answered without a qualm:
“How utterly
ridiculous!” she said.
Something in her
voice made him look fixedly at her. It rang (Hermione would have
said) false.
“It isn't true,
then?” he asked.
Violet opened her
mouth and then shut it again like a duck emitting a noiseless quack.
Then she opened it once more.
“Yes, it is
true,” she said. “Dick and I are going to-morrow.”
He turned his back
on her and spoke.
“Dorothy, will
you marry me?” he said.
Violet did not
pause to think what Hermione would have done. But then Hermione was
a very different sort of girl. She was sweet and good and true and
noble, instead of being such an awful liar. She gave a gasp.
“I will if you
want to after what I am going to tell you,” she said.
“How perfectly
ripping!” said John. “Drive ahead!”
Violet tried to say
“It will hurt you,” but though it would have looked all right in
a book, she thought it wouldn't sound right.
“I'm not
Dorothy,” she said, “or Crystal. It's a nom-de-plume. It's not
even my nom-de-plume. It's Dick's. He wrote Lady Hermione.”
“Oh, lor!”
John looked at her
in amazement and then broke out into a loud laugh.
“I can't tell you
what a relief that is,” he said. “It was the only thing I had
against you that you wrote such awful twaddle! Oh, it pays; I know
that, so do you. And so Dick did it all! Well, I never!”
“Not quite all,”
said she. “I made up the events.”
“Oh they're
nothing. Anyone could do that. It's the way of telling it. What is
your name then?”
“Violet Cundall!”
said she. “And I never had an Aunt Dorcas or anything of that
sort.”
“Better and
better. Now you've told me … Violet, you darling!”
After an interlude
Violet's practical nature asserted itself.
“And what's to be
done about Dorothy Crystal?” she asked.
“Keep her up, of
course,” he said. “She's a gold-mine to Dick and me. We shall
be a sort of syndicate—The Dorothy Crystal Syndicate.”
Which still
tropically flourishes.
Reproduced from The Courier [Taunton], 04/12/1935
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