“I—I believe I have exhausted myself, sir.”
He laughed aloud at this, and went and told it to Mrs. Delany, civilly treating a plain fact as a mere bon mot.
Then, turning to me again, he said, more seriously, “But you have not determined against writing, any more?”
“N-o, sir”
“You have made no vow—no real resolution of that sort?”
“No, sir.”
“You only wait for inclination?”
“No, sir.”
A very civil little bow spoke him pleased with this answer, and he went again to the middle of the room, where he chiefly stood, and, addressing us in general, talked upon the different motives of writing, concluding with,
“I believe there is no constraint to be put upon real genius; nothing but inclination can set it to work. Miss Burney, however, knows best.” And then, hastily returning to me, he cried, “What? what?”