“Yes, and proud as--”
“A Spaniard,” suggested John Craik.
“If you will. It is a vice which has almost become a virtue in these democratic days.”
John Craik looked up.
“I will do what I can, Lloseta,” he said. “But she is not a great writer, and will never become one.”
“I know that. Some day she will become a great lady, or I know nothing of them.”
Craik was still busy touching up his manuscript.
“I have never seen her,” he said. “But the impression I received from her manuscripts is that she is a girl who has lived a simple life among a simple people. She has seen a great deal of nature, out-of-door nature, which is pure, and cannot be too deeply studied. She has seen very little of human nature, which is not so pure as it might be. That is her chief charm of style, a high-minded purity. She does not describe the gutter and think she is writing of the street. By the way, I am expecting her here” (he paused, and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece) “in exactly two minutes.”
The Count rose quickly and took his hat. As he extended his hand to say “Good-bye” there was a rap at the door. The discreet youth who told John Craik’s falsehoods for him came in and handed his master a slip of paper with a name written thereon.
Craik read the inscription, crumpled up the paper, and threw it into the waste-paper basket.