“Something—I am fond of writing,” she murmured.
He laughed gently, saying:
“You are a very good girl, my love, and I know how much I am indebted to you for your admirable copying of my notes for the History; but do not let the idea take hold of you that such work is well paid. If you ever get in touch with a bookseller, he will tell you that the work of a copyist is very poorly paid.”
“I was not thinking of copying,” murmured Fanny.
“Of what then, pray?” he asked.
“If I could but write a book,” she replied, with her eyes on the floor.
“A book!” cried Mrs. Burney, who thought that she had been silent long enough. “A book!”
“To be sure—to be sure,” said her father, in the indulgent tone of a parent humouring a child. “You might write a book—so might anyone who could pay for a ream of paper, a bottle of ink and a box of quills. You should speak to Mr. Newbery about it: he has printed many nursery stories since 'Goody Two Shoes.' You might indeed do something that the children would take a fancy to. Well, Francis Newbery is as honest a man as his uncle, and we may talk to him about it. By the by, did not you once tell me that you had written something, or that you were going to write something? You thought it proper to get my leave. I had forgotten that. Well, if it be a moral nursery story, we might interest Mr. Newbery in it.”
“I do not think that it is quite wise to encourage a girl to neglect her useful household duties in order to compile some rubbish that no one would read,” said Mrs. Burney.
“Of course you will understand that you are not to neglect your household duties, Fanny,” said her father.