There Purdy, after several adventures, his
poor leg a mass of supuration, had at length betaken himself, to be
looked after by his Tilly; and Polly's hopes were all alight again.
She blushed guiltily at the repetition, and asked her husband to say the
lines once again. He did so.
"But they don't really, Richard, do they?" she said in an apologetic
tone--she referred to the casting of shadows. "It would be so useful if
they did--" and she drew a sigh at Purdy's dilatory treatment of the
girl who loved him so well.
"Oh, you prosaic little woman!" cried Mahony, and laid down his book to
kiss her. It was impossible to be vexed with Polly: she was so honest,
so transparent. "Did you never hear of a certain something called poetic
licence?"
No: Polly was more or less familiar with various other forms of licence,
from the gold-diggers' that had caused all the fuss, down to the special
licence by which she had been married; but this particular one had not
come her way. And on Richard explaining to her the liberty poets allowed
themselves, she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, and was sorry to
think he approved. It seemed to her just a fine name for wanton
exaggeration--if not something worse.
There were also those long evenings they spent over the first hundred
pages of WAVERLEY. Mahony, eager for her to share his enthusiasm,
comforted her each night anew that they would soon reach the story
proper, and then, how interested she would be! But the opening chapters
were a sandy desert of words, all about people duller than any Polly had
known alive; and sometimes, before the book was brought out, she would
heave a secret sigh--although, of course, she enjoyed sitting cosily
together with Richard, watching him and listening to his voice.
Pages:
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184