“And why not, prithee? Think you I would begrudge the seven or eight shillings it would cost?”
“Nay, sir; but if you went to Mr. Newbery you would probably find yourself treated badly by him if you accused him of publishing the book. 'Tis Mr. Lowndes who is the guilty person.”
“You will not put one to the humiliation of a journey to London all for a trumpery novel?”
“Nay, not for a trumpery novel; but we were talking of 'Evelina.'”
“I submit to the correction, my dear; and so now we are in perfect agreement, you will continue the story, if only to allay my sleepless speculations.”
“I wonder how it will sound when read in the morning? I fear that it will be as dull as a play would seem in the garish light of day.”
“Tell not that to me. There are novels of the morn as well as of the even, and I believe that the freshness of this one will be best appreciated in the brightness of such a morning as this. At any rate, we can but make a trial of it. If we find that it does not read well, you can lay it aside till the evening.”
Fanny was delighted to find that he was as interested in her book as Susy had been; and the noon came and found her beginning the second volume to him, sitting by his side in the sunlight that bathed the little garden, and his attention never flagged. Once or twice, however, he grumbled, but her ear assured her that his grumble was not a critical one; it was only meant to censure the behaviour of the rude Captain Mervain.
They were still in the garden when, shortly after noon, a chaise was heard in the lane: it appeared to be on its way to the house.
“What! as I live 'tis mamma and my sisters come to pay us a visit,” cried Fanny, seeing a handkerchief waved to her from the window.