His speech was at random. The ice was broken; they had spoken; he did not want the coldness of silence to freeze it all over again. Having got in the thin edge of the wedge he proposed to drive it right home—if possible. Hence his speech.
Miss Mivvins laughed. The child liked him—so did she. Fearful of driving her away, he had not attempted to force conversation. She had curled up a trifle because of his reserve—hence they had spoken but little. Unknown to themselves their communication had been more subtle than that of words, perhaps had paved the way for them. They came easily enough now.
"You also," he said, "seem to have a taste for fiction of a pronounced type. I see you are reading one of my books."
"Your books?" Her query was uttered in a tone of surprise. "Oh, no! This came down from Mudie's with other volumes yesterday."
"Oh, I don't doubt that."
He laughed openly at her concern—a hearty, resounding laugh, a trifle loud, but with a pleasant honest ring in it; continued:
"I don't doubt that the library people acquired it honestly. My claim was not made in a possessory sense. I meant that my name figures on the title page."
She looked at him blankly for a moment, so great was her surprise. Then, the truth dawning on her, she said:
"You! You—are the author?"