“You wished the Ode to be a sort of peace-offering?” said Susy. “You hoped that when he read it he would forget to be angry? Well, that was cunning of you, Fanny!”
“I tell you that the whole affair has had a bad effect upon us all,” said Fanny gently.
Once again she was conscious of someone telling her that there was no use crying over spilt milk, and this impression was followed by one that took the form of a resolution to be more careful in future. If she had spilt some milk once, that was no reason why she should not, by exercising proper forethought, refrain from doing so again.
But the book was now given to the world, if the world would have it, but as yet a copy had not come into her hand. She wondered if she would have to spend seven and sixpence in buying a copy. Seven shillings and sixpence, sewed. It was a great deal of money. Was it possible that there were five hundred people in the world ready to pay seven and sixpence for a novel with the name of no author on the title page? (She thought it best to leave out of her consideration altogether the possible purchasers of the nine shilling set of bound volumes.)
Who were the people that ever laid out so much money upon books which could be read through between the rising and the setting of the sun? She had never met such liberal enthusiasts. Of course, it was only reasonable that so splendid a work as the “History of Music” should be in the library of every house wherein people of taste resided, but that was not a book to be galloped through; some people might not be able to read it within a month. Besides, it bore the honoured name of Dr. Burney on the title page, and the fame of Dr. Burney was great. But as for that poor little seven-and-sixpenny sewed “Evelina,” how should anyone take an interest in her without reading her story? How would anyone read her story without feeling afterwards that seven-and-sixpence (leaving the nine shilling expenditure out of the question) was a ridiculous price to pay for such an entertainment?
She felt that people would come to look on her as the instigator of a fraud if they paid their money and read the book and then found out that she had written it. The wisdom of concealing her name even from the bookseller was now more apparent to her than it had ever been. She had visions of indignant purchasers railing against Mr. Lowndes, and Mr. Lowndes searching for her, so that he might rail against her; and so her speculations ended in laughter; but even her laughter grated upon her sensitive ears: she felt that it was the malicious jeering of a clever cheat at the thought of having got the better of a worthy man.
Her precious “Evelina” was leading her a pretty dance. If it had not been able to do so it would have been a paltry sort of book and she would have been a paltry sort of author.