"Really, my boy?—not really?" he asked.
Didcott struggled to free himself from his embarrassment.
"I——" he began.
"I don't think, papa, that you should suggest Mr. Didcott is not sincere," said Miss Winder, with dignity. "I have a better opinion of him than that." She smiled with great sweetness on the young man. "You do really like it, don't you, Mr. Didcott?"
"Of course I like it," replied the unhappy young man.
What else could he say?
Throughout dinner nothing was talked of save the merits of the novel. Before long Didcott found he had committed himself to the opinion that it rivalled George Eliot at her best.
"I never did see much in George Eliot," remarked the fair authoress, modestly. "If you had said Marie Corelli——"
And of course the young man said Marie Corelli. He would have said Shakespeare before the dinner was over. Given a charming profile, an excellent dinner, and '84 champagne, what else could have been expected?
When the young lady returned to the drawing-room, leaving the two men to their cigars, Mr. Winder leant over to him confidentially. "Do you really think," he asked, almost wistfully, "that my little girl's book is as good as you say?"