It really does seem to me large enough for a five-shilling volume: but I have not said so to anybody, for fear of being mistaken.
We have pretty well settled what publisher to send it to. But I don't feel very hopeful of another success so soon. It seems more than I ought to expect. Not very good accounts of poor Mrs. Romilly. There seems no idea of her coming home yet. Even if she did, I should not see Nellie, for the Romillys all go north in about a fortnight,—as soon as Denham's holidays begin. They did talk of going sooner, but Mr. Romilly couldn't make up his mind to it. I'm sure I don't know what he will do when Denham has gone to school,—only sometimes people bear a thing better when it can't be helped than when it can be helped. Lady Denham is very much taken with Miss Con; and Mother and I are so pleased. Lady Denham says she is "distinguished-looking." I believe Sir Keith admires her too, only he is so cautious and polite that one never can know what he does truly think and feel. I can't make out whether he cares for anybody, really,—more than just as a pleasant acquaintance.
It provokes me, rather; and yet of course I like him,—at least, I suppose so. He is very good, and very handsome, and most people count him perfect. I don't think I do. And the sort of liking that I have wouldn't make me the least unhappy if he went away to-morrow and never came back again. For I should have Mother still—and Nellie,—and my dear writing,—and a great many delightful things besides. And yet Sir Keith is a real friend of ours, and he certainly means to be as kind as possible to everybody all round.
That is just it! I suppose I don't care to be merely one of "everybody all round." And if I don't, it must be pride.
And yet I shouldn't wish him not to be pleasant and polite. And I know he likes Mother,—and I like him for that. And if he didn't always bring on such a shy fit that I can't speak, I might perhaps think him nice to talk to.
There is one other thing that I do like in Sir Keith; and that is, that he doesn't think himself bound to make pretty remarks about my writings, only just to please me. As if I were a child, wanting sugar-plums!
I don't mean that one isn't glad to have an opinion worth having; and honestly-meant praise is pleasant. But that is different. And it seems to me that the people whose opinion one cares for the most are very often the most backward of all in giving it.
July 9. Thursday.—My MS. has gone off. Oh, I do hope and pray that it may succeed!
July 11. Saturday.—Such a kind answer has come from the publisher, Mr. Willis, promising "immediate attention."
July 17. Friday.—I do believe this has been the most delightful day I ever had in my life.