The prospect seemed to please the great Cal.

He was used to such things; he found them pay, I suppose.

We began desultorily to discuss the possibility of the writer's being a relation of mine; I doubted.

I had no relations that I knew of; there was a phenomenal old aunt who had inherited the acres and respectability of the Etchingham Grangers, but she was not the kind of person to worship a novelist.

I, the poor last of the family, was without the pale, simply because I, too, was a novelist.