“Oh, suspicions? There have been as many suspicions set going on this subject within the month as would be entertained only by the most imaginative Bow Street runner. For my own part, I maintain that the book could only have been writ by our friend Horace Walpole. He found that his ‘Otranto’ excited so much curiosity when published without a name, he came to the conclusion that he would produce another novel with the same amount of mystery attached to it. The only point against this assumption is that—”
“That the book was assuredly written by another person,” said Burney, smiling in a way that he designed to be somewhat enigmatical.
Mrs. Thrale tried to interpret his smile.
“What!” she exclaimed, “you have formed another theory—you—you have heard something since you were last here?”
“Not something, madam—not a mere something, but everything—everything that is to be known regarding the writer of that book.”
“Is’t possible? Who is your informant?—the value of all that you have heard is dependent upon the accuracy of your informant.”
“The book was written by the person whom I fancied I knew best of all the people in the world, and yet the last person whom I would believe capable of such a feat. The author of the book—I am the author of her being—she is none other than my daughter Fanny.”
Mrs. Thrale sat staring at him, one arm resting upon the table, her lips parted as if about to utter an exclamation of surprise, but unable to do so by reason of her surprise.
More than a minute had passed before she was able to speak, and then she could do no more than repeat his words.
“Your daughter Fanny—your daughter—but is not Fanny the little shy one that goes into a corner when you have company?” she asked, in a tone that suggested that she had heard something too ridiculous to be believed.