“‘Dear Sir, what?’ cried I; afraid he had been betraying your secret to Mrs. Thrale; which I know he longed to do.
“He only smiled—but such a smile of pleasure I never saw! ‘Why to night at Streatham,’ cried he, while we were sitting at tea, only Dr. Johnson, Mrs. Thrale, Miss Thrale, and myself. ‘Madam,’ cried Dr. Johnson, see-sawing on his chair, ‘Mrs. Cholmondeley was talking to me last night of a new novel, which she says has a very uncommon share of merit; Evelina. She says she has not been so entertained this great while as in reading it; and that she shall go all over London to discover the author.’
“Do you breathe, my dear Fanny?
“‘Odd enough!’ cried Mrs. Thrale; ‘why somebody else mentioned that book to me t’other day—Lady Westcote it was, I believe. The modest writer of Evelina, she talked about.’
“‘Mrs. Cholmondeley says,’ answered the Doctor, ‘that she never before met so much modesty with so much merit in any literary production of the kind, as is implied by the concealment of the author.’
“‘Well,—’ cried I, continued my father, smiling more and more, ‘somebody recommended that book to me, too; and I read a little of it—which, indeed—seemed to be above the commonplace works of this kind.’
“Mrs. Thrale said she would certainly get it.
“‘You must have it, madam!’ cried Johnson, emphatically; ‘Mrs. Cholmondeley says she shall keep it on her table the whole summer, that every body that knows her may see it; for she asserts that every body ought to read it! And she has made Burke get it—and Reynolds.’
“A tolerably agreeable conversation, methinks, my dear Fanny! It took away my breath, and made me skip about like a mad creature.
“‘And how did you feel, Sir?’ said I to my father, when I could speak.