Angelo blushed like a girl. “It makes me too happy to hear such words from you. But I vote we don't talk about me. Will you call on Mr. Rolfe?”
“Is he married?”
Angelo opened his eyes at the question. “I think not,” said he. “Indeed, I know he is not.”
“Could you get him down here?”
Angelo shook his head. “If he knew you, perhaps; but can you expect him to come here upon your business? These popular writers are spoiled by the ladies. I doubt if he would walk across the street to advise a stranger. Candidly, why should he?”
“No; and it was ridiculous vanity to suppose he would. But I never called on a gentleman in my life.”
“Take me with you. You can go up at nine, and be back to a late dinner.”
“I shall never have the courage to go. Let me have his letter.”
He gave her the letter, and she took it away.
At six o'clock she sent Mary Wells to Mr. Angelo, with a note to say she had studied Mr. Rolfe's letter, and there was more in it than she had thought; but his going off from her husband to boat-racing seemed trivial, and she could not make up her mind to go to London to consult a novelist on such a serious matter.