“I should like 'Evelina' to come into mamma's hands,” continued Lottie. “She will go through the three volumes at a hand gallop, even though she did take it upon her to condemn it as being on a level with the odious stuff that comes to us nowadays.”
“And if she condemns it so heartily before she has read it, what will she say about it when she has finished the last chapter?” asked Fanny.
“She will say that it is the prettiest story that has been written since her dear Mr. Richardson died,” said Susy.
“I doubt it, my dear,” said Fanny.
“Well, let the worst come, she will never guess that you wrote it,” laughed Lottie.
“It is the padre whom I fear,” said Fanny. “Surely he will not need to go beyond the Ode on the first leaf to know that it is he himself whom I address.”
“And if he should—smoke it?” asked Susy, lapsing into slang which she had acquired from her sailor brother, who was in no sense a purist.
“If he should—well, either of two things will happen,” replied the authoress. “He will either think me the most double-dealing wretch in the world or the most dutiful of daughters.”
“And which will be right?” asked Lottie.
“Both views will be right,” said Fanny. “Although I meant every word of the Ode, I really think now that the idea of writing it before the dedication came to me only when I felt that I had behaved badly in sending the book to the printer without his consent.”