“Oh, I’m sure she’d like to see it very much. But if you send six copies you’ll have none left—for other people.”
“Oh, I can easily get more. The editor chap told me I could have a thousand if I liked. I’m sending her six, because I dare say she’d like to forward some to her friends.”
By return of post came Miss Ley’s reply.
My dear Edward,—I perused all six copies of your speech with the greatest interest; and I think you will agree with me that it is high proof of its merit that I was able to read it the sixth time with as unflagging attention as the first. The peroration, indeed, I am convinced that no acquaintance could stale. It is so true that “every Englishman has a mother” (supposing, of course, that an untimely death has not robbed him of her). It is curious how one does not realise the truth of some things till they are pointed out; when one’s only surprise is at not having seen them before. I hope it will not offend you if I suggest that Bertha’s handiwork seems to me not invisible in some of the sentiments (especially in that passage about the Union Jack). Did you really write the whole speech yourself? Come, now, confess that Bertha helped you.—Yours very sincerely,
MARY LEY.
Edward read the letter and tossed it, laughing, to Bertha. “What cheek her suggesting that you helped me! I like that.”
“I’ll write at once and tell her that it was all your own.”
Bertha still could hardly believe genuine the admiration which her husband excited. Knowing his extreme incapacity, she was astounded that the rest of the world should think him an uncommonly clever fellow. To her his pretensions were merely ridiculous; she marvelled that he should venture to discuss, with dogmatic glibness, subjects of which he knew nothing; but she marvelled still more that people should be impressed thereby: he had an astonishing faculty of concealing his ignorance.
At last the polling-day arrived, and Bertha waited anxiously at Court Leys for the result. Edward eventually appeared, radiant.
“What did I tell you?” said he.