“Bathsheba, in the April vacation I am going to Boston to find a publisher!” said Octavia, with resolution.
“I have been thinking,” said I, “that it might be worth the while for me to go. I am sure that I could make better arrangements for the June butter than I can make by letter.”
It seemed an incongruous association—the butter and the book—but Octavia was glad to have me go with her, and she said heartily that she should think I could make almost any arrangement for the butter, I had made Groundnut Hill Farm so famous. At least the prospective famous author was not ashamed of the butter, and that was a comfort.
“Then we can say, without making any explanations, that I am going to the city with you,” said Octavia, “and until it is accepted, no one need know anything about ‘Evelyn Marchmont.’”
Octavia had grown more sensitive with each one of those returned stories. No one was in her confidence now but me.
“The surprise will make its success all the pleasanter for them—if it does succeed,” continued Octavia, excusing herself; for we are a family who confide in each other.
“Isn’t even Estelle to know?” I inquired, a little wistfully, for it seemed to me that there might be a sympathy between the two devotees of art.
“Oh, the child wouldn’t understand,” Octavia replied, rather impatiently. “It’s of no use to try to pretend, Bathsheba, that she and Dave are quite like ourselves.”
Aliens! It was a long time since Octavia had used the word, but it was easy to see that she still had the feeling that it expressed. I think Octavia was the one of us who had felt Dave’s disgrace the most keenly.
“I think we’d better not say anything about going until just before we start,” continued Octavia, anxiously. “I dread questions.” It was evident that Octavia had grown almost morbidly sensitive, now that the “cold fit” that comes to writers when the work is done, was upon her.