I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith

conversation as if to a stranger. It depressed me so much that I couldn’t think of anything more to say. After a few minutes’ silence, he said:
    “So Stephen got work at Four Stones.”
    I just nodded and he looked at me rather queerly and asked if I liked Stephen. I said that of course I did, though the poems were embarrassing.
    “You should tell him you know he copies them,” said Father.
    “You’ll know how to do it-encourage him to write something of his own, however bad it is. And be very matter of fact with him, my child—even a bit on the brisk side.”
    “But I don’t think he’d like that,” I said.
    “I
    think he’d take briskness for snubbing. And you know how fond of me he’s always been.”
    “Hence the need for a little briskness,” said Father.
    “Unless …. Of course, he’s a godlike youth. I’m rather glad he’s not devoted to Rose,” I must have been looking very much puzzled. He smiled and went on: “Oh, don’t bother your head about it.
    You’ve so much common sense you’ll probably do the right thing instinctively. It’s no use telling Topaz to advise you because she’d think it all very splendid and natural—and for all I know, it might be. God knows what’s to become of you girls.”
    I suddenly knew what he was talking about.
    “I understand,” I said, “and I’ll be brisk-within reason.”
    But I wonder if I shall ever manage it. And I wonder if it is really necessary—surely Stephen’s devotion isn’t anything serious or grownup? But now that the idea has been put into my head, I keep remembering how queer his voice sounded when he asked me about being hungry. It is worrying—but rather exciting… I shall stop thinking about it; such things are not in my line at all. They are very much in Rose’s line and I know just what Father meant when he said he was glad Stephen wasn’t devoted to her. Topaz came from the wash-house and set irons to heat, so Father changed the subject by asking me if I’d dyed all my clothes green. I said I had few to dye.
    “Any long dresses at all?” he asked.
    “Nary a one,” I replied; and, indeed, I cannot see the slightest chance of ever acquiring grownup clothes.
    “But my school gym-dress has a lot of life in it yet and it’s very comfortable.”
    “I must alter something of mine for her,” said Topaz as she went back to the wash-house. I felt my lack of clothes was a reflection on Father and, in an effort to talk of something else, said the most tactless thing possible.
    “How’s the work?” I asked.
    A closed-up look came over his face and he said shortly: “You’re too old to believe in fairy tales.”
    I knew I had put my foot in it and thought I might as well go a bit further.
    “Honestly, Father-aren’t you trying to write at all?”
    “My dear Cassandra,” he said in a cutting voice he very seldom uses, “it’s time this legend that I’m a writer ceased. You won’t get any coming-out dresses from my earnings.”
    He got up without another word and went upstairs. I could have kicked myself for wrecking the first talk we’d had for months.
    Thomas came in just then, wet through. I warned him not to use Father’s bedroom as a passage, as we usually do, and he went up the front way. I took him some dry underclothes—fortunately the week’s ironing was done—and then went up to see how Stephen was getting on.
    He had stuck the candle-ends on the floor, close to his open book, and was reading lying on his stomach.
    His face was dazzlingly bright in the great dark attic — I stood a moment watching his lips moving before he heard me. The saucepans were on the point of overflowing. As I helped him to empty them out of the window I saw that the lamp was lit in the gatehouse, so Father must have gone back there through the rain. It was slackening off at last. The air smelt very fresh. I leaned out over the garden and found it was much warmer than indoors—it always takes our house a while to realize a