ABSTRACT
During the autumn of 1923, Violet le Maistre sent in some pieces to the magazine. Murry returned them with a few encouraging words, suggesting that she should work at something longer if she wanted a definite opinion; and with that, forgot the matter. Not so Violet. She replied gratefully, and asked if she might bring some more in person so that she could have some minutes talk with me. She came. She was a slip of a girl, with wavy chestnut hair, an entire absence of sophistication, and a simple determination to be a writer. ‘Her voice was soft and low – an excellent thing in woman’, and there was, in the fragments of her writing, a lovely and incorrupt fidelity to the beauty seen which, though hesitant, belonged to the same order as Katherine Mansfield’s.
