“Yes.”
“If they are interesting when enlarged to the size of an article, what must they be in their concentrated form? Pure rectified spirit, above proof; before it is lowered to be fit for human consumption: ‘words that burn’ indeed.”
“Rather like a balloon before it is inflated: flabby, shapeless, dead. You could hardly read them.”
“May I try?” she said coaxingly. “I wrote my poor romance in that way—I mean in bits, out of doors—and I should like to see whether your way of entering things is the same as mine.”
“Really, that’s rather an awkward request. I suppose I can hardly refuse now you have asked so directly; but——”
“You think me ill-mannered in asking. But does not this justify me—your writing in my presence, Mr. Knight? If I had lighted upon your book by chance, it would have been different; but you stand before me, and say, ‘Excuse me,’ without caring whether I do or not, and write on, and then tell me they are not private facts but public ideas.”
“Very well, Miss Swancourt. If you really must see, the consequences be upon your own head. Remember, my advice to you is to leave my book alone.”
“But with that caution I have your permission?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated a moment, looked at his hand containing the book, then laughed, and saying, “I must see it,” withdrew it from his fingers.