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“Yes, yes,” she answered, looking at me apprehensively, all her old manner returning.

I followed up my advantage, opened the little paper volume and began. I first took the drama line by line, and spoke of the faults of expression and structure; then I turned back and touched upon two or three glaring impossibilities in the plot. “Your absorbed interest in the motive of the whole no doubt made you forget these blemishes,” I said apologetically.

But, to my surprise, I found that she did not see the blemishes–that she appreciated nothing I had said, comprehended nothing. Such unaccountable obtuseness puzzled me. I began again, going over the whole with even greater minuteness and care. I worked hard: the perspiration stood in beads upon my forehead as I struggled with her–what shall I call it–obstinacy? But it was not exactly obstinacy. She simply could not see the faults of her own work, any more than a blind man can see the smoke that dims a patch of blue sky. When I had finished my task the second time she still remained as gently impassive as before. I leaned back in my chair exhausted, and looked at her.

Even then she did not seem to comprehend (whether she agreed with it or not) what I must be thinking. “It is such a heaven to me that you like it!” she murmured dreamily, breaking the silence. Then, with more animation, “And now you will let me recite it?”

I was too weary to oppose her; she threw aside her shawl and bonnet, and, standing in the centre of the room, began.

And she carried me along with her: all the strong passages were doubly strong when spoken, and the faults, which seemed nothing to her, were made by her earnestness to seem nothing to me, at least for that moment. When it was ended she stood looking at me with a triumphant smile.

“Yes,” I said, “I like it, and you see that I do. But I like it because my taste is peculiar. To me originality and force are everything–perhaps because I have them not to any marked degree myself–but the world at large will not overlook as I do your absolutely barbarous shortcomings on account of them. Will you trust me to go over the drama and correct it at my pleasure?” This was a vast deal for me to offer; I was surprised at myself.

“No,” she answered softly, still smiling. “There shall not be so much as a comma altered.” Then she sat down and fell into a reverie as though she were alone.

“Have you written anything else?” I said after a while, when I had become tired of the silence.

“Yes.”

“Can I see it? Or is it them ?”

“It is them. Yes, you can see all.”

“I will call upon you for the purpose.”

“No, you must not,” she said, coming back to the present nervously. “I prefer to come to you.”

At this moment Simpson entered to light the room, and busied himself rather longer than was necessary over the task. When he finally went out I saw that my visitor’s manner had sunk into its former depression: the presence of the servant seemed to have chilled her.

“When did you say I might come?” I repeated, ignoring her refusal.

“I did not say it. It would be impossible.”

“Well, then, when will you come here?” There was, I fear, a trace of fatigue in my tone.

“At your good pleasure, sir,” she answered humbly.

My chivalry was touched by this: after all, she was a woman. “Come to-morrow,” I said. “By the way, come and dine with me then; why not?” I was curious to see what she would reply.

“Why not, indeed? Yes, I will come. I am forty-three: I might have been your mother.”

This was not quite true, as I am over thirty: but I look young, while she–Well, I had thought her over fifty. “I can hardly call you ‘mother,’ but we might compromise upon ‘aunt,'” I said, laughing. “Aunt what?”