“You do me great honour,” said I, “but, I assure you, you are quite mistaken in me. I could not afford you the help you need.”
“Why—they said you wrote throughout your long illness!”
“Whoever they may he, I can assure you, I only used my pen in hours of solitude, as a companion; nothing more.”
“But its results!——”
“Will never appear before the public. Oh no, I am no authoress. And I must confess to a prejudice against female assistants in our leading periodicals. I think it a province out of our sphere.”
“Well, you compliment us,” said he, bowing; “but I own you have not satisfied me. I am convinced you could, if you would. Dear me! how time runs away, to be sure! I must run off this moment; but one takes no count of time in your presence, Mrs. Cheerlove.”
And, presenting his hand to me in a very affable manner, and bowing over mine, he flourished off.
“Delightful!” cried Mrs. Ringwood, taking a deep breath; “how you’ve drawn him out! Oh, I do so enjoy good conversation! But I’m no converser—never was. Always such a simple little thing!”
I knew not what to say; and she almost immediately went on in a dreamy sort of way—