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CHAPTER NINE

The Vicar of Lower Beeding begged the favour of a signed copy of Mr. Wellard's latest work to be sold in aid of the Restoration Fund, as the present condition of the Church tower, Mr. Wellard would be distressed to hear, rendered it unsafe to ring the bells for Matins and Evensong.
Minna Redfern was a little girl eight years old. She had read all Mr. Wellard's books and loved them. She had now started an autograph collection of her favourite authors, and would very much like Mr. Wellard's autograph.
And so on.
`I shall go for a walk and think this over,' said Reginald to a duck and two drakes, and left his castle by the postern gate....
The trouble is, he thought, I'm so out of it down here. I can't ask anybody anything. I don't want to be a churl, and I don't want to be a fool. If I get all these letters just because of one accidental book, it stands to reason that real incorporated authors must be simply smothered with them. What do they do? Just take no notice? Or write and say `No' politely? Or `Yes' eagerly? They couldn't say `Yes' to everything, of course. Even saying `No' - oh, but they have secretaries, I suppose. Really I'm just the man who ought to say `Yes' to everything, because I'm not a professional writer, and my time isn't valuable. What an idiotic expression. All time is valuable, and the time when you aren't working is much more valuable than the time when you are. Well, then, my time is valuable, and I'm damned if I'm going to waste any of it indoors, answering these dashed people.
`That's just what I think,' said a lazy voice.
`Hallo !' He stopped suddenly and blinked at her.