“Begin the serious talk,” said Streeter; “I am ready and eager to listen.”
“Did you read the review of your latest book which appeared in the Argus?”
“Did I?” said Streeter, somewhat startled—the thought of the meeting that was so close, which he had forgotten for the moment, flashing over him. “Yes, I did; and I had the pleasure of meeting the person who wrote it this evening.”
Miss Neville almost jumped in her chair.
“Oh, I did not intend you to know that!” she said. “Who told you? How did you find out that I wrote reviews for the Argus?”
“You!” cried Streeter, astonished in his turn. “Do you mean to say that you wrote that review?”
Miss Neville sank back in her chair with a sigh.
“There!” she said, “my impetuosity has, as the Americans say, given me away. After all, you did not know I was the writer!”
“I thought Davison was the writer. I had it on the very best authority.”
“Poor Davison!” said Miss Neville, laughing, “why, he is one of the best and staunchest friends you have: and so am I, for that matter— indeed, I am even more your friend than Mr. Davison; for I think you can do good work, while Mr. Davison is foolish enough to believe you are doing it.”