There was a most aggravating tone of pity mingled with her surprise.
She evidently now looked upon me as more presumptuous than ever, and hopelessly beyond the pale of her social circle!
“And how much,”—she asked, in a patronising way which galled me to the quick,—“do you derive from this source? That is, if you will kindly excuse my saying so? The proposal which you have done my daughter and myself the honour to suggest, necessitates my making such delicate inquiries, you know.”
“I do not earn very much by my pen, as yet, Mrs Clyde,” I answered—“but, I hope to do more in a little time, when my name gets recognised. I’m only a beginner as yet.”
“Well, if you would take my advice, Mr Lorton, you would remain so. I’ve heard it frequently said by some of your penny-a-liners—I believe that is what you literary gentlemen call yourselves—that, authorship reaps very poor pay. It makes a very good stick, but a bad crutch; and I don’t think you can expect to increase your income very largely from that quarter! The only author I ever knew personally, sank into it, poor fellow, because he could do nothing else; and, he led a wretched existence from hand to mouth! He was never recognised afterwards in society, of course!”
“Genius is not always acknowledged at first, Mrs Clyde,” I said loftily.
Her sneers at the profession, which I regarded as one of the highest in the world, provoked me.
Fancy her calling all authors “penny-a-liners!”
“So, all unsuccessful men say!” she replied curtly.—“But,”—she went on, putting aside all my literary prospects as beneath her notice, and returning to the main point at issue,—“is that all you have got to depend upon for your anticipated wife and establishment?”
She smiled sweetly, playing with me as a cat would with a mouse.