“That girl is a little original,” he said, when he talked her over with Lady Randolph; but, meantime, it was very certain that they were the best of friends.
They were seated at breakfast on Saturday morning, rather more than a week after his arrival. Lucy had been making up her mind that she could make no further excuse to herself, but must go to Hampstead that day, and was trying, as she drank her coffee, to compose little speeches fit for the occasion. Sir Thomas was half hidden behind the newspaper, and Lady Randolph cast a glance now and then, as she finished her breakfast, at the pages of a weekly review, supposed to be the most spirituel of its kind, the first in fashion and in force.
“Oh!” she cried, suddenly. “Lucy, here is something interesting; here is a notice of ‘Imogen.’ You must take it out to the Russells; for once Cecilia has been as good as her word.” Lucy was in the midst of a carefully turned sentence by which she meant to assure Mrs. Russell that she felt Bertie’s “kindness.” She looked up with lively interest—then, “Good heavens!” Lady Randolph cried.
“What is the matter, aunt?” said Sir Tom; he put out his big hand and took it from before her, with the license of his privileged position. “We others are most anxious to hear, and you keep it to yourself. Shall I read it aloud, Miss Lucy?”
“No! no!” Lady Randolph cried, putting out her hand. She was pale with fright and trouble, but Sir Tom did not pay any attention; he did not notice her looks, and what was there in Bertie Russell to make anything that could be said about his book alarming to these ladies? He took it up lightly.
“I must see this Russell,” he said, “that you are so much interested in. What right has the fellow to make you anxious?” he was looking at Lucy, who was, indeed, curious and interested, but no more. “Now, if you are not good,” he said, looking at her, “I shall keep you in suspense.”
But Lucy did not accept the challenge. She smiled in reply, with her usual tranquillity.
“It is Mrs. Russell who will be in suspense,” she said; and with a little friendly nod at her he began to read. It was the kind of review for which this organ of the highest literature was famous. This was what Sir Thomas read:
“‘We have so often had occasion to point out to the female manufacturer of novels the disadvantages which attend her habitual unacquaintance with the simplest rules of her art, that it is a sort of relief to find upon the title-page of the most recent example of this class of productions a name which is not feminine. The occurrence is rare. In this branch of industry, at least, men have shown a chivalrous readiness to leave the laurels growing low, and therefore within the reach of the weaker vessel, to the gathering of woman. She has here had the chance, so often demanded, of proving her powers, and she has not been reluctant to avail herself of it. Almost as appropriately feminine as Berlin wool, or the more fashionable crewels, the novel of domestic life has acquired a stamp of virtuous tedium, or unvirtuous excitement, which are equally feminine, and we sigh in vain for a larger rendering even of the levities of existence, a treatment more broad, a touch more virile.’
“There’s for you, Miss Lucy,” said Sir Tom, pausing; “how do you like that, my excellent aunt? He puts your sex in their right place. There’s a man now who feels his natural superiority, who contemplates you all de haut en bas—”