There was a little book bound in blue paper lying open, face downwards, on the sofa, and Philip idly took it up. It was a twopenny novelette, and the author was Courtenay Paget. That was the name under which Norah wrote.
"I do like his books," said Mildred. "I read them all. They're so refined."
He remembered what Norah had said of herself.
"I have an immense popularity among kitchen-maids. They think me so genteel."