“I think it’s magnificent!” said French with emotion.
The other still looked at him ingenuously, but with a dawning light of eagerness. It recalled to French the suppressed, the exaggerated warmth of his greeting on the hotel stairs. “What is it he wants of me? For he wants something.”
“I never knew, either,” Paul continued, “that she and Fingall had met. Some one must have brought her here, I suppose. It’s curious.” He pondered, still holding the book. “And I didn’t know you knew her,” he concluded.
“Oh, how should you? She was probably unconscious of the fact herself. I spent a day with her once in the country, years ago. Naturally, I’ve never forgotten it.”
Donald Paul’s eyes continued obscurely to entreat him. “That’s wonderful!”
“What—that one should never forget having once met Emily Morland?” French rejoined, with a smile he could not repress.
“No,” said Emily Morland’s lover with simplicity. “But the coincidence. You see, I’d made up my mind to ask you—.” He broke off, and looked down at the sketch, as if seeking guidance where doubtless he had so often found it. “The fact is,” he began again, “I’m going to write her Life. She left me all her papers—I daresay you know about all that. It’s a trust—a sacred trust; but it’s also a most tremendous undertaking! And yesterday, after hearing something of what you’re planning about Fingall, I realized how little I’d really thought the book out, how unprepared I was—what a lot more there was in that sort of thing than I’d at first imagined. I used to write—a little; just short reviews, and that kind of thing. But my hand’s out nowadays; and besides, this is so different. And then, my time’s not quite my own any longer.... So I made up my mind that I’d consult you, ask you if you’d help me ... oh, as much as ever you’re willing....” His smile was irresistible. “I asked Bessy. And she thought you’d understand.”
“Understand?” gasped French. “Understand?”
“You see,” Paul hurried on, “there are heaps and heaps of letters—her beautiful letters! I don’t mean—” his voice trembled slightly—“only the ones to me; though some of those ... well, I’ll leave it to you to judge.... But lots of others too, that all sorts of people have sent me. Apparently everybody kept her letters. And I’m simply swamped in them,” he ended helplessly, “unless you will.”
French’s voice was as unsteady as his. “Unless I will? There’s nothing on earth I’d have asked ... if I could have imagined it....”