She feared changes, and who could tell that the editor would continue to be kind?
Perhaps when he saw me-- She seemed to be very much afraid of his seeing me, and this, I would point out, was a reflection on my appearance or my manner.
No, what she meant was that I looked so young, and--and that would take him aback, for had I not written as an aged man?
'But he knows my age, mother.' 'I'm glad of that, but maybe he wouldna like you when he saw you.' 'Oh, it is my manner, then!' 'I dinna say that, but--' Here my sister would break in: 'The short and the long of it is just this, she thinks nobody has such manners as herself.

Can you deny it, you vain woman ?' My mother would deny it vigorously.
'You stand there,' my sister would say with affected scorn, 'and tell me you don't think you could get the better of that man quicker than any of us ?' 'Sal, I'm thinking I could manage him,' says my mother, with a chuckle.
'How would you set about it ?' Then my mother would begin to laugh.

'I would find out first if he had a family, and then I would say they were the finest family in London.' 'Yes, that is just what you would do, you cunning woman! But if he has no family ?' 'I would say what great men editors are!' 'He would see through you.' 'Not he!' 'You don't understand that what imposes on common folk would never hoodwink an editor.' 'That's where you are wrong.

Gentle or simple, stupid or clever, the men are all alike in the hands of a woman that flatters them.' 'Ah, I'm sure there are better ways of getting round an editor than that.' 'I daresay there are,' my mother would say with conviction, 'but if you try that plan you will never need to try another.' 'How artful you are, mother--you with your soft face! Do you not think shame ?' 'Pooh!' says my mother brazenly.
'I can see the reason why you are so popular with men.' 'Ay, you can see it, but they never will.' 'Well, how would you dress yourself if you were going to that editor's office ?' 'Of course I would wear my silk and my Sabbath bonnet.' 'It is you who are shortsighted now, mother.

I tell you, you would manage him better if you just put on your old grey shawl and one of your bonny white mutches, and went in half smiling and half timid and said, "I am the mother of him that writes about the Auld Lichts, and I want you to promise that he will never have to sleep in the open air."' But my mother would shake her head at this, and reply almost hotly, 'I tell you if I ever go into that man's office, I go in silk.' I wrote and asked the editor if I should come to London, and he said No, so I went, laden with charges from my mother to walk in the middle of the street (they jump out on you as you are turning a corner), never to venture forth after sunset, and always to lock up everything (I who could never lock up anything, except my heart in company).