- tion with you is a source both of pleasure and pride
to me. At any rate I feel a pride and pleasure in publishing for an author who loves her work, and does it not primarily for money, but for fame, and because she can't help the bubbling over of her rich imagination. When I get to London, one of my first visits will be to you. Real conversation is delightful and refreshing, and the idle talk of the 'crushes' is weariness of the flesh and death to the spirit. You, who aim at higher things, have an ideal; you who, thank God, believe this world to be a stepping-stone to one of immeasurable superiority, must often have asked yourself, after one of the great assemblies to which you went or where you received—Cui bono? Yes, if the weather keeps decent, I will with the greatest pleasure refresh my mind with some converse with you."
Now occurs an interval of ten months, and then
the manuscript of "Wormwood" evokes the following
sentiments:
"August 5th, 1890.
"Dear Thelma,—Of the power in your latest work there can be no doubt. The interest commences immediately, and is on the increase throughout. The grip you have of the story is extraordinary, and will react upon the reader, ensuring success."
"September 5th, 1890.
"The public, however, may forgive you for the extraordinary power of some of the scenes, which haunt me now, though it is a month since I read them."
