“Not unless you will let me see something of yours.”
“Of mine?” quoth I. “Oh! I have nothing to show.”
“I am sure you have; you must have.”
“No, indeed; I don't draw at all.”
“Draw? No, but I mean some of your writing.”
“Oh, I never write—except letters.”
“Letters? those are the very things I want to see.”
“Oh, not such as you mean.”
“Oh now, don't say so; I am sure you are about something and if you would but show me—”
“No, no, I am about nothing—I am quite out of conceit with writing.” I had my thoughts full of the vile Warley.