“Stop, Susy: I remember that he confessed to someone, who told it to Mr. Crisp, that he had written ‘Rasselas’ in order to get money enough to pay for his mother’s funeral.”
“Oh, in that case—might he not have written something a good deal better, Fanny? Oh, I see that you are stricken with horror at my thinking anything that came from Dr. Johnson to be dull. I daresay I began reading it too soon: I should have waited until I had learned that if a great man writes a book it is a great book, but that if a simple girl writes a novel—well, there’s no use crying over spilt milk. Now that’s the last word that I have to say, for I mean to read every word that’s printed here—here—here!” She brought down her open hand on the topmost sheets of “Evelina” in three crescendo slaps, and then tucked her feet under her and buried herself in the book.
Fanny sat laughing beside her; and when Susy paid no attention to her laughter, she continued sitting there in silence, while Susy read page after page.
Several minutes had passed before the authoress asked:
“How does the thing read, dear?”
Susy gave a start at the sound of her voice and looked around her as if she had just been awakened. This should have been enough for Fanny. She should not have repeated her question: it was already answered.
“How does the thing read, Susy?”
“How does it read?” cried Susy. “Oh, Fanny, it reads exactly like a book—exactly. There is no difference between this and a real book. Oh, ’tis a thousand times nicer to read in print than it was as you wrote it. It is so good, too!—the best story I ever read! I can’t understand how you ever came to write it. You who have seen nothing of life—how did such a story ever come to you?”
“I wish I knew,” replied Fanny. “And do you think that anyone else will read it now that it is printed?” she asked (she was rapidly acquiring the most prominent traits of the complete novel writer).