So I wrote to Gatty, to name my Day, and began to pack up. When Mr. Fenwick heard I was going, he looked very much surprised; but said Nothing. I was glad of the one and the other. I liked his being surprised, and I liked his making no common-place Speeches. In the mean Time, he had, I knew, addressed a Letter to Mr. Caryl; and I found, rather unexpectedly, he had got an Answer;—in this Way.
I had carried up his Chocolate, and found him with his Elbow on the Mantel-Piece, and his Thumb and Fore-Finger pinching his Chin very hard, while he frowned anxiously over a Billet he was reading.
"This is very strange,—very provoking!" cried he, looking round to me for Sympathy—"I don't know why I should trouble you to hear about it, Mrs. Patty, but I am vexed!"
"I should like to hear about it if you please, Sir," said I quietly.
"Why,—the Matter is this. I sent Something I had been writing,—Something I had taken a good deal of Pains with,—to Mr. Paul Caryl. He seemed a good deal pleased with it, took it up quite warmly, promised to put it in Train for me and give it his Patronage. A long Interval has ensued, without Anything coming of it; at length I venture to write him a gentle Reminder; and he, with a hundred thousand Protestations and Apologies, writes to say that 'how to excuse himself he knows not, but the plain Fact is, a Spark falling on my Manuscript, has utterly consumed it.'"
"I don't believe it!" cried I with sudden Passion, "I don't believe one Word of it!"
"Why, it's hard to believe—" begins Mr. Fenwick with an aggrieved Air.
"It's not to be believed!" interrupted I vehemently; "it's a Falsehood, if ever one was told! A trumped up, vamped up Story!"
"Hush, Mrs. Patty—"