“Lady Ladd I am sure it was not, nor could it be Miss Thrale's. O maam! I begin to think it was really yours! Now, was it not, Mrs. Thrale?”
Mrs. Thrale only laughed.
“A lady of our acquaintance,” said Miss Palmer, “Mrs. Cholmondeley, went herself to the printer, but he would not tell.”
“Would he not?” cried Mrs. Thrale, “why, then, he's an honest man.”
“Oh, is he so?—nay, then, it is certainly Mrs. Thrale's.”
“Well, well, I told you before I should not deny it.”
“Miss Burney,” said she, “pray do you deny it?” in a voice that seemed to say,—I must ask round, though rather from civility than suspicion.
“Me?” cried I, “well no: if nobody else will deny it, why should I? It does not seem the fashion to deny it.”
“No, in truth,” cried she; “I believe nobody would think of denying it that could claim it, for it is the sweetest book in the world. My uncle could not go to bed till he had finished it, and he says he is sure he shall make love to the author, if ever he meets with her, and it should really be a woman!”
“Dear madam,” cried Miss Offy, “I am sure it was you but why will you not own it at once?”