"'Shamed o' myself: that's all—but it's bad enough."
"There's no call to be ashamed. You did it in absence o' mind, and all the best authors have suffered from that. It's well known."
"To go through what I did," said Palmerston bitterly, "just to bring up two-an'-nine! 'Tis such a waste of material!"
"That's one way of puttin' it, to be sure."
"I mean, for a book—for' Pickerley.' I s'pose there's not one man in a thousand—not one liter'y man, anyhow—has suffered anything like it. And I can't put it into the book!"
"No," agreed Fancy meditatively. "I don't suppose you could: not in 'Pickerley' anyhow. You couldn' make your 'ero swallow anything under a di'mund tiyara, and that's not easy."
"I'll have to write the next one about low life," said Palmerston. "If only I knew a bit more about it! Mrs Bowldler says it can be rendered quite amusin', and I wouldn' mind makin' myself the 'ero."
"Wouldn't you? Well, I should, and don't you let me catch you at it! The man as I marry'll have to keep his head up and show a proper respect for his-self."
Poor Palmerston stared. The best women in the world will never understand an artist.