“I think I had rather not inflict my trivialities upon you at all, sir,” he remarked, with truth, and yet with an absence of sincerity of which he felt that Lucilla, at all events, was quite as well aware as he was himself.
“I assure you that I’m not worth reading.”
“I shall judge of that for myself,” said the Canon kindly. “Was there not something in that Review that was sent to you, Flora?”
“Yes,” said Flora unwillingly.
“Fetch it, my dear.”
Quentillian cast his mind over his more recent productions, and was invaded by a grim dismay.
His opinion of the Canon’s literary judgment, where writings not directly connected with Church matters were concerned, was of the slightest, but he disliked the thought both of the pain that the elder man would feel in reading that which would offend his taste, and of the remonstrance that he would certainly believe it his duty to make.
It was a relief to him when Flora returned without the Review, and said:
“There is someone who wants to speak to you in the hall, Father. I’m so sorry.”
The Canon rose at once.