“From my sister's novel!” answered the delighted Lady Say and Sele, expecting my raptures to be equal to her own; “it's in the 'Mausoleum,'—did not you know that? Well, I can't think how you can write these sweet novels! And it's all just like that part. Lord Hawke himself says it's all poetry. For my part, I'm sure I never could write so. I suppose, Miss Burney, you are producing another,—a'n't you?”
“No, ma'am.”
“Oh, I dare say you are. I dare say you are writing one this Very minute!”
Mrs. Paradise now came up to me again, followed by a square man, middle-aged, and hum-drum, who, I found was Lord Say and Sele, afterwards from the Kirwans, for though they introduced him to me, I was so confounded by their vehemence and their manners, that I did not hear his name.
“Miss Burney,” said Mrs. P., presenting me to him, “authoress of 'Evelina.'”
“Yes,” cried Lady Say and Sele, starting up, “'tis the authoress of 'Evelina!'”
“Of what?” cried he.
“Of 'Evelina.' You'd never think it,—she looks so young, to have so much invention, and such an elegant style! Well, I could write a play, I think, but I'm sure I could never write a novel.”
“Oh, yes, you could, if you would try,” said Lady Hawke.
“Oh, no, I could not,” answered she; “I could not get a style—that's the thing—I could not tell how to get a style! and a novel's nothing without a style, you know!”