“Indeed I am,” Constance answered, with some impatience. “Do you think I would say such a thing if I were not sure of it? Do you not feel it yourself? Did you not know it when you were writing?”
“No—I thought, because it was written so fast it could not be worth much. Indeed, I think so still—I am afraid that you are——”
“Mistaken?”
“Perhaps—carried away because you like me, or because you think I ought to write well.”
“Nonsense. Promise me that you will not show this book to any one until it is quite finished. I want you to take my word for it, to believe in my judgment, because I know I am right. Will you?”
“Of course I will. To whom should I show it? I think I should be ashamed.”
“You need not be ashamed if you go on in that way. When will you have written more?”
“Give me three days—that will give you three chapters at least and take you well into the story. You are not going out of town yet.”
“I shall not go until it is finished,” said Constance with great determination. She had made up her mind that George would write better if he wrote very fast, and she meant to urge him to do his utmost.
“But that may take a long time,” he objected.