For a moment I also hesitated. I thought I saw where she was. Thanks to that Lancashire jackanapes, there was division between us; and I had pretty well made up my mind, not only that he thought himself quite capable of writing Andriaovsky's "Life," himself, but that he had actually made an attempt in that direction. They had come in the suspicion that I was throwing them over, and, though that suspicion was removed, Maschka wished, if there was any throwing over to be done, to do it herself. In a word, she wanted to compare me with Schofield.
"To see it as far as it is written," I repeated slowly…. "Well, you may. That is, you, Michael's sister, may. But on the condition that you neither show it to anybody else nor speak of it to anybody else."
"Ah!" she said…. "And only on those conditions?"
"Only on those conditions."
I saw a quick glance between them. "Shall we tell him?" it seemed to say….
"Including the man Michael's sister is going to marry?" she said abruptly.
My attitude was deeply apologetic, but, "Including anybody whomsoever," I answered.
"Then," she said, rising, "we won't bother. But will you at least let us know, soon, when we may expect your text?"
"I will let you know," I replied slowly, "one week from to-day."
On that assurance they left; and when they had gone I crossed once more to the lower shelf that contained my letter-files. I turned up the file for 1900 once more. During their visit I had had an idea.