“Now, Elfie, I’ll tell you what we will do,” answered Mr. Swancourt, tickled with a sort of bucolic humour at the idea of criticizing the critic. “You shall write a clear account of what he is wrong in, and I will copy it and send it as mine.”
“Yes, now, directly!” said Elfride, jumping up. “When will you send it, papa?”
“Oh, in a day or two, I suppose,” he returned. Then the vicar paused and slightly yawned, and in the manner of elderly people began to cool from his ardour for the undertaking now that it came to the point. “But, really, it is hardly worth while,” he said.
“O papa!” said Elfride, with much disappointment. “You said you would, and now you won’t. That is not fair!”
“But how can we send it if we don’t know whom to send it to?”
“If you really want to send such a thing it can easily be done,” said Mrs. Swancourt, coming to her step-daughter’s rescue. “An envelope addressed, ‘To the Critic of THE COURT OF KELLYON CASTLE, care of the Editor of the PRESENT,’ would find him.”
“Yes, I suppose it would.”
“Why not write your answer yourself, Elfride?” Mrs. Swancourt inquired.
“I might,” she said hesitatingly; “and send it anonymously: that would be treating him as he has treated me.”
“No use in the world!”