"You describe the work of a genius, and coolly ask me to do it. Besides, I don't want to be set thinking about my heart, and all that," I said peevishly.
"Now, don't be raising objections where none exist," he returned.
"If you mean I am pretending to object, I have only to say that I feel all one great objection to the whole affair, and that I won't touch it."
They were all silent; and I felt as if I had behaved ungraciously. Then first I felt as if I might have to do it, after all. But I couldn't see my way in the least.
"Now, what is there," I asked, "in all my life that is worth setting down,—I mean, as I should be able to set it down?"
"What do you ladies talk about now in your morning calls?" suggested Mr.
Blackstone, with a humorous glance from his deep black eyes.
"Nothing worth writing about, as I am sure you will readily believe, Mr.
Blackstone," I answered.
"How comes it to be interesting, then?"
"But it isn't. They—we—only talk about the weather and our children and servants, and that sort of thing."
"Well!" said Mr. S., "and I wish I could get any thing sensible about the weather and children and servants, and that sort of thing, for my magazine. I have a weakness in the direction of the sensible."