And now I must tell you a little conversation which I did not hear myself till I came home; it was between Mr. Sheridan and my father.
“Dr. Burney,” cried the former, “have you no older daughters? Can this possibly be the authoress of 'Evelina'?”
And then he said abundance of fine things, and begged my father to introduce him to me.
“Why, it will be a very formidable thing to her,” answered he, “to be introduced to you.”
“Well then, by and by,” returned he.
Some time after this, my eyes happening to meet his, he waived the ceremony of introduction, and in a low voice said,
“I have been telling Dr. Burney that I have long expected to see in Miss Burney a lady of the gravest appearance, with the quickest parts.”
I was never much more astonished than at this unexpected address, as among all my numerous puffers the name of Sheridan has never reached me, and I did really imagine he had never deigned to look at my trash.
Of course I could make no verbal answer, and he proceeded then to speak of “Evelina” in terms of the highest praise but I was in such a ferment from surprise, not to say pleasure that I have no recollection of his expressions. I only remember telling him that I was much amazed he had spared time to read it, and that he repeatedly called it a most surprising book; and sometime after he added, “But I hope, Miss Burney, you don't intend to throw away your pen?”
“You should take care, sir,” said I, “what you say: for you know not what weight it may have.”