price. The collection of faded notes, of still more faded "thoughts," of quotations, platitudes, signatures, represented a formidable purpose.
"Most people apply to Mr. Paraday by letter, you know," I said.
"Yes, but he doesn't answer. I've written three times."
"Very true," I reflected; "the sort of letter you mean goes straight into the fire."
"How do you know the sort I mean?" My interlocutress had blushed and smiled, and in a moment she added: "I don't believe he gets many like them!"
"I'm sure they're beautiful, but he burns without reading." I didn't add that I had told him he ought to.
"Isn't he then in danger of burning things of importance?"
"He would be, if distinguished men hadn't an infallible nose for nonsense."
She looked at me a moment—her face was sweet and gay. "Do you burn without reading, too?" she asked; in answer to which I assured her that, if she would trust me with her repository, I would see that Mr. Paraday should write his name in it.
She considered a little. "That's very well, but it wouldn't make me see him."
"Do you want very much to see him?" It seemed ungracious to catechise so charming a creature, but somehow I had never yet taken my duty to the great author so seriously.
