I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. On a small shelf near the foot of the bed stood a couple of empty phials, a cracked ewer and basin, a brown jug without a handle, a small tin coffee-pot without a spout, a saucer of rouge, a fragment of looking-glass, and a flask, labelled "Rosa Solis. This year—I’ve got it badly. I often wonder why the young always take us ancients for nambypamby creatures. ‘None of them means anything to you at all? How odd. “What night will you dine and go to the theatre with me?—and how about Hurlingham on Saturday?” Anna shook her head. May I ask the nature of your interest in her?” He hesitated.
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