“Most people apply to Mr. Paraday by letter, you know,” I said.
“Yes, but he doesn't answer. I've written three times.”
“Very true,” I reflected; “the sort of letter you mean goes straight into the fire.”
“How do you know the sort I mean?” my interlocutress asked. She had blushed and smiled and in a moment she added: “I don't believe he gets many like them!”
“I'm sure they're beautiful, but he burns without reading.” I didn't add that I had told him he ought to.
“Isn't he then in danger of burning things of importance?”
“He would be, if distinguished men hadn't an infallible nose for a petition.”
She looked at me a moment—her face was sweet and gay. “Do you burn without reading, too?” she asked; in answer to which I assured her that if she would trust me with her repository I would see that Mr. Paraday should write his name in it.
She considered a little. “That's very well, but it wouldn't make me see him.”
“Do you want very much to see him?” It seemed ungracious to catechise so charming a creature, but somehow I had never yet taken my duty to the great author so seriously.