Flip had not wanted a New York agent, but there had been no help for it. She’d been scribbling up in the nursery when Roddy came in, incensed, because some feller had got the number of Champneys by nefarious means and rung him up on the blower. She had refused to come to the phone. She hated phones.
She refused the first five times, but in the end Roddy had insisted she talk to the feller to put an end to it.
“It’s awfully kind of you, but I couldn’t possibly expect you to put up with my crotchets,” was the sentence released into the hated mouthpiece.
“Well, that’s settled then! I’m thrilled!” were the sentences that emerged from the hated earpiece.
The only way to end the conversation was to leave matters there, which she did.
Bert had then annoyed Roddy by sending an e-mail to the estate office asking to see some new work, and she had been made to send him a manuscript to stop the feller sending bloody e-mails.
Roddy wasn’t about to let her have a bash at it would put Bert off. Chance would be a fine thing.
