“Caution—nothing like caution,” said he in a whisper, unfastening the door and putting his head out to glance to right and left of the short corridor. He held up his finger. “All safe so far,” he whispered; “no one is in sight.”
CHAPTER XV
The moment he disappeared, Susy slipped the knot which she had just made on the parcel and flung the paper away.
“Now we can settle down to it properly, Fanny,” she cried, catching up the bundle of unstitched sheets and throwing herself back upon the little sofa. “Come beside me, dear, and we shall go through every word together. Never mind what Eddy said; I think it looks quite lovely, and how easily it reads—just like poetry—‘Evelina’!—how did you think of that sweet name?—‘or, A Young Lady’s Entrance into the World.’ Not a mistake so far. The printers must surely be careful men! And now that you come to think of it, this is really the entrance of the Young Lady into the world. Here she is, smiling, but a little shy—just like her mamma—your Evelina takes after you, dear—now, confess that there is something agreeably shy in the italics printing of that line beginning with ‘A Young Lady’s Entrance,’ Fanny; it may be wrong to write a novel, but don’t you think that this is worth it? Edward is a goose to talk as he did about crying over spilt milk. I wonder that you had patience to listen to him.”
“Eddy is a dear boy, and he only said what he knew nearly everybody else would be disposed to say about this business. I started the story, as you know, half in fun—by way of exercising my hand—but then it got hold of me, and it became deadly earnest, and now—oh, Susy, what I feel now about it is just what I said to Edward: it seems as if it were the best part of myself that I am giving to the world. I wonder if it is right for anyone who has written a book, if it be only a novel, to look upon it in that light.”
“Why should it not be right? Didn’t you put all your thoughts into it, and are not one’s thoughts part of oneself?” said Susy. “And although so many people look down upon novels—all the novels that have been written since Mr. Richardson died—still—oh, did not Dr. Johnson once write a novel? Yes, ‘Rasselas’ was what he called it. I tried to read it but—”
“H’sh, Susy. Dr. Johnson might write anything that he pleased. Though Dr. Johnson wrote a novel, that should be no excuse for such as I having the audacity to do the like.”
“I suppose that’s what some people will say. But I can’t see that if a good man does an evil thing, it becomes a good thing simply because he does it.”