"You forget, that, although nobody knows my real name, everybody will know
that I am the daughter of that Mr. Walton who would have thrown his pen in
the fire if you had meddled with any thing he wrote. They would be praising
_me_, if they praised at all. The name is nothing. Of all things, to have
praise you don't deserve, and not to be able to reject it, is the most
miserable! It is as bad as painting one's face."

"Hardly a case in point," said Mr. Blackstone. "For the artificial
complexion would be your own work, and the other would not."

"If you come to discuss that question," said my father, "we must all
confess we have had in our day to pocket a good many more praises than
we had a right to. I agree with you, however, my child, that we must not
connive at any thing of the sort. So I will propose this clause in the
bargain between you and Mr. S.; namely, that, if he finds any fault with
your work, he shall send it back to yourself to be set right, and, if you
cannot do so to his mind, you shall be off the bargain."

"But papa,--Percivale,--both of you know well enough that nothing ever
happened to me worth telling."

"I am sorry your life has been so very uninteresting, wife," said my
husband grimly; for his fun is always so like earnest!

"You know well enough what I mean, husband. It does _not_ follow that what
has been interesting enough to you and me will be interesting to people who
know nothing at all about us to begin with."

"It depends on how it is told," said Mr. S.