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These or something like them had been the Master's remarkable words in relation to the action of "Ginistrella"; and yet, though they had made a sharp impression on the author of that work, like almost all spoken words from the same source, he a week after the conversation I have noted left England for a long absence and full of brave intentions.
He had been absent from London for two years two years which, seeming to count as more, had made such a difference in his own life through the production of a novel far stronger, he believed, than "Ginistrella" that he turned out into Piccadilly, the morning after his arrival, with a vague expectation of changes, of finding great things had happened.
Besides, the deportment of their proprietor was not, as regards the lady in the red dress, such as could be natural, toward the wife of his bosom, even to a writer accused by several critics of sacrificing too much to manner. Paul Overt had a dread of being grossly proud, but even morbid modesty might view the authorship of "Ginistrella" as constituting a degree of identity.
"I gave it but a quarter of an hour." "A quarter of an hour's immense, but I don't understand where you put it in. In the drawing-room after dinner you weren't reading you were talking to Miss Fancourt." "It comes to the same thing, because we talked about 'Ginistrella. She described it to me she lent me her copy." "Lent it to you?" "She travels with it." "It's incredible," Paul blushed.
Happy the societies in which it hasn't made its appearance, for from the moment it comes they have a consuming ache, they have an incurable corruption, in their breast. Most assuredly is the artist in a false position! But I thought we were taking him for granted. Pardon me," St. George continued: "'Ginistrella' made me!"
"You a slave, my dear Mark Ambient? You have the freest imagination of our day!" "All the more shame to me to have done some of the things I have! The reconciliation of the two women in Ginistrella, for instance, which could never really have taken place. That sort of thing is ignoble; I blush when I think of it!
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