“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.”
“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.