“Will you get the candles, Miss Burney? It seems that you are sorely in need of illumination if you put that question to me seriously. Trash? Madam, you perceive that I am all eagerness to hear the rest of the story, and yet you put that silly question to me! Look you here, you rogue, cannot you see that the very fact of your putting such a question to me shows that the book is the work of a man? When a carefully trained woman such as you cannot yet discriminate between the good and the trash that is written, how would it be possible for a woman to write what you have read?”
“You think there is nothing womanly in the book?”
“There is nothing effeminate in the writing, so much is sure. There is plenty that is womanly in the book, because the man who wrote it knows how to convey to a reader a sense of womanliness to be in keeping with the character of the letters—that is what is meant by genius. A woman trying to produce the same effect would show the frill of her petticoat on every page. She would make the men’s parts in the book as feminine as the women’s. Now, no more chatter an you please, but get the candles.”
“And Mrs. Hamilton will get our supper by their light.”
Fanny tripped away, and was behind the door of the larder before she allowed the laughter which was pent up very close to her eyes to have its freedom. It was a very hearty laugh that she had, for there was a constant buzzing in her ears of the question:
“What will he say when he learns the truth?”
She was ready to dance her Nancy Dawson in delight at seeing the effect of the book upon the old man whom she loved—the man who was directly responsible for its existence. If Mr. Crisp had not taken trouble with her, encouraging her to write her letters to him in a natural style, the correspondence in “Evelina” would, she knew, be very different from what it was. So, after all, she reflected, he was right in pronouncing the book the work of a man; but he had no idea that he was the man who was responsible for it. That reflection of hers was as fully imbued with the true spirit of comedy as her anticipation of the effect that would be produced upon him by the revelation of the authorship.
And that was why this young student of the human comedy was able to restrain herself from making the revelation to him at once: she had, as it were, a delicate palate for comedy, and it was a delight to her—the gratification of her natural vanity had nothing to do with it—to lead him on to commit himself more deeply every moment on the question of the sex of the writer. Oh, no; she had no idea of making any confession to him for the present. She would have many another chat with him before the moment for that dénouement in the comedy should arrive.
So she got the candles and the housekeeper laid the cold chicken and the plates on the supper-table, and Mr. Crisp set about mixing the salad in the manner he had acquired in Italy. And all the time they were engaged over the simple meal he was criticising what she had read, and he had scarcely a word to say about it that was not favourable. But he took care to protect himself in case he should be forced to retire from the position he had taken up.