“Oh, of course you won’t get anybody to buy it,” said she, shaking her head slowly. “And if you did, it would be a bad sign for its merit, wouldn’t it? When you have real talent you always have to wait years and years, don’t you?”
“Not always. Dickens was famous at twenty-five.”
“Ah! But then he was Dickens! And I’m not even twenty-five.”
“No. But in half a dozen years you will be. And if you’re celebrated by that time you won’t have reason to complain.”
She smiled, and her pretty eyes glowed, but she still shook her head.
“I’m not so ambitious as that,” she said. “All I want is for you to read this, as you offered to do, you know, and to tell me whether you think there will ever be any chance for me, not to be famous, I don’t hope for that, but to be just one of the modest workers in the field. But there’s one thing you must promise,” and she became very earnest indeed. “It is that you won’t even read one word till you’ve got to London.”
“I promise,” said Bayre. “After all, that won’t be so long to wait. I shall be back there to-morrow.”
To his infinite satisfaction a shade passed over the young girl’s face at this intelligence.
“Yes, I know,” said she. “My guardian told me so an hour ago.”
“Are you glad?” ventured Bayre.