“Of course, however, any one could tell, at a glance, that it was from a woman’s pen.”
“I don’t see why,” said she, bridling. “So far from that being the case, I’ll bet you a box of gloves that when the book comes out, the critics will say that not one line of it was written by me, and that I am a purely mythical personage, invented out of the whole cloth.”
“Done,” said he; “they will say nothing of the kind. By the way, can you tell me, Alice, why it is that women always put so much hugging and kissing in their books?”
“I believe they do,” said Alice, laughing.
“Jack would not have dared to make that chapter so—so—warm, in fact. Why, it took away my breath, the brisk way in which you enveloped Mary in the Don’s arms. Jack could not have brought about such a consummation in less than three chapters.”
“So much the worse for Jack. It was human nature,—woman’s nature, at any rate.”
“Oho! live and learn, Jack!”
“I am taking notes.”
“And act on them,” rejoined Alice, with a rather malicious allusion to certain recent incidents in my own personal career. “Women like aggressive lovers; so next time—”
“But really, Alice,” said Charley, coming to my rescue, “that chapter of yours—such as it is,—now no offence,—I mean giving, as it does, a love-passage from a woman’s point of view, is very well done. And one thing, Jack, seems to me especially to be commended. It is positively artistic, the way in which she contrives to cast a shadow upon the pair, as they sit basking in the sunshine of—ah—in fact—sunshine of young love—ahem—match, Jack—thank you—ahem.” Charley reddened a little, conscious of having been betrayed into an unwonted burst of eloquence. “And very cleverly indeed,” added he, “that shadow is wrought by the very flash of light which will give our readers a momentary glimpse of certain lines in the nature of poor Dory, which you had not previously brought out.”