II
The next five days were strenuous¹ mentally, though inactive physically².
Immured³ in a private room in the hospital, Hilary was set to work. Everyevening she had to pass an examination on what she had studied that day.
All the details of Olive Betterton’s life, as far as they could be ascertained,were set down on paper and she had to memorize and learn them byheart. The house she had lived in, the daily woman she had employed, herrelations, the names of her pet dog and her canary, every detail of the sixmonths of her married life with Thomas Betterton. Her wedding, thenames of her bridesmaids, their dresses. The patterns of curtains, carpetsand chintzes. Olive Betterton’s tastes, predilections⁴, and day by day activit-ies. Her preferences in food and drink. Hilary was forced to marvel⁵ at theamount of seemingly meaningless information that had been massed to-gether. Once she said to Jessop:
“Can any of this possibly matter?”
And to that he had replied quietly:
“Probably not. But you’ve got to make yourself into the authentic⁶ article.
Think of it this way, Hilary. You’re a writer. You’re writing a book about awoman. The woman is Olive. You describe scenes of her childhood, hergirlhood; you describe her marriage, the house she lived in. All the timethat you do it she becomes more and more of a real person to you. Thenyou go over it a second time. You write it this time as an autobiography⁷.
You write it in the first person. Do you see what I mean?” She noddedslowly, impressed in spite of herself.
“You can’t think of yourself as Olive Betterton until you are Olive Better-ton. It would be better if you had time to learn it up, but we can’t affordtime. So I’ve got to cram⁸ you. Cram you like a schoolboy—like a studentwho is going in for an important examination.” He added, “You’ve got aquick brain and a good memory, thank the Lord.”

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