Ralph Towne would have been pleased with the intentness of Tessa’s eyes and the softening of her lips.
“You dear Naughty Nan,” cried Tessa, as the book fell from the reader’s hands.
“Then you do not blame me so much?”
“It is only a mistake. Who does not make a mistake? It sounds rather more than skin-deep, though.”
“Oh, I had to throw in a little agony to make it interesting. I don’t want him to think—”
“What he thinks is the price you pay for your experiment.”
“Now write a last sentence, and I’ll keep it forever; the names are all fictitious; no one can understand it; I’ll find a pencil.”
Tessa held the pencil a moment. Nan on her knees watched her.
“Something that I shall remember all my life—whenever I do a foolish thing—if I ever do again.”
“Do you know Jean Ingelow?”