“No, no,” cried she, laughing, “leave me alone; the fun will be to make
them think it me.”
However, as I learnt at night, when they were gone, Sir Joshua was so
very importunate with Mr. Thrale, and attacked him with such eagerness,
that he made him confess who it was, as soon as the ladies retired.
Well, to return to our walk. The Miss Palmers grew more and more urgent.
“Did we indeed,” said the eldest, “dine with the author of 'Evelina?'”
“Yes, in good truth did you.”
“Why then, ma'am, it was yourself.”
“I shan't tell you whether it was or not; but were there not other
people at dinner besides me? What think you of Dr. Calvert?”
“Dr. Calvert? no! no; I am sure it was not he: besides, they say it was
certainly written by a woman.”
“By a woman? nay, then, is not here Lady Ladd, and Miss Burney, and
Hester?”[59]
“Lady Ladd I am sure it was not, nor could it be Miss Thrale's. O maam!
I begin to think it was really yours! Now, was it not, Mrs. Thrale?”
Mrs. Thrale only laughed.
“A lady of our acquaintance,” said Miss Palmer, “Mrs. Cholmondeley, went
herself to the printer, but he would not tell.”
“Would he not?” cried Mrs. Thrale, “why, then, he's an honest man.”
“Oh, is he so?--nay, then, it is certainly Mrs. Thrale's.”
“Well, well, I told you before I should not deny it.”
“Miss Burney,” said she, “pray do you deny it?” in a voice that seemed
to say,--I must ask round, though rather from civility than suspicion.
“Me?” cried I, “well no: if nobody else will deny it, why should I? It
does not seem the fashion to deny it.”
“No, in truth,” cried she; “I believe nobody would think of denying it
that could claim it, for it is the sweetest book in the world. My uncle
could not go to bed till he had finished it, and he says he is sure he
shall make love to the author, if ever he meets with her, and it should
really be a woman!”
“Dear madam,” cried Miss Offy, “I am sure it was you but why will you
not own it at once?”
“I shall neither own nor deny anything about it.”
“A gentleman whom we know very well,” said Miss Palmer, “when he could
learn nothing at the printer's, took the trouble to go all about Snow
Hill, to see if he could find any silversmith's.”
“Well, he was a cunning creature!” said Mrs. Thrale; “but Dr. Johnson's
favourite is Mr. Smith.”
“So he is of everybody,” answered she: “he and all that family;
everybody says such a family never was drawn before. But Mrs.
Cholmondeley's favourite is Madame Duval; she acts her from morning to
night, and ma-foi's everybody she sees. But though we all want so much
to know the author, both Mrs. Cholmondeley and my uncle himself say they
should be frightened to death to be in her company, because she must
be such a very nice observer, that there would be no escaping her with
safety.”
What strange ideas are taken from mere book-reading! But what follows
gave me the highest delight I can feel.
“Mr. Burke,”[60] she continued, “doats on it: he began it one morning
at seven o'clock, and could not leave it a moment; he sat up all night
reading it. He says he has not seen such a book he can't tell when.”
Mrs. Thrale gave me involuntarily a look of congratulation, and could
not forbear exclaiming, “How glad she was Mr. Burke approved it!” This
served to confirm the Palmers in their mistake, and they now, without
further questioning, quietly and unaffectedly concluded the book to be
really Mrs. Thrale's and Miss Palmer said,--“Indeed, ma'am, you ought to
write a novel every year: nobody can write like you!”
I was both delighted and diverted at this mistake, and they grew so easy
and so satisfied under it, that the conversation dropped, and off we
went to the harpsichord.
Not long after, the party broke up, and they took leave. I had no
conversation with Sir Joshua all day; but I found myself more an object
of attention to him than I wished; and he several times spoke to me,
though he did not make love!
When they rose to take leave, Miss Palmer, with the air of asking the
greatest of favours, hoped to see me when I returned to town; and Sir
Joshua, approaching me with the most profound respect, inquired how long
I should remain at Streatham? A week, I believed: and then he hoped,
when I left it, they should have the honour of seeing me in Leicester
Square.[61]
In short, the joke is, the people speak as if they were afraid of me,
instead of my being afraid of them. It seems, when they got to the door,
Miss Palmer said to Mrs. Thrale,
“Ma'am, so it's Miss Burney after all!”
“Ay, sure,” answered she, “who should it be?”
“Ah! why did not you tell us sooner?” said Offy, “that we might have had
a little talk about it?”
Here, therefore, end all my hopes of secrecy!