The two girls left the room slowly, after sending in the direction of Fanny a glance which they meant should encourage her—a glance which should let her know that they were quite ready to share her punishment, should the worst come to the worst.

Fanny replied to them with her eyes; and then prepared for the worst.

It quickly came.

“My dear daughter,” said Dr. Burney, when they were alone, Mrs. Burney in her chair at the head of the table. “My dear Fanny, I am no believer in leading by degrees up to such a communication as I have to make to you. I think that the sooner it is got over the better it will be for all whom it may concern. Well, this is it: Mr. Thomas Barlowe has written to me asking my permission for him to address you with a view to marriage.”

He made a pause, looking at her to observe the effect of this revelation.

And what he saw at first was a girl with a pale face and downcast eyes, awaiting, almost breathlessly, an accusation from which she shrank; but when he had spoken he saw a great change come over her. Not immediately, but gradually. It seemed to him that she had not fully realized the meaning of his words—that she was puzzled—trying to recall what he had said. Then the light seemed to dawn upon her. She flushed, and, after a few moments, threw back her head and went into a peal of laughter—a real schoolgirl’s fit of laughter at something amazingly comic—the tumbling of a clown into a pool of water with a splash, or, perhaps, the slipping of a dignified beadle upon a butter slide. Her laughter went on for a long time, but without in the least suggesting hysteria—it was simply a girl’s natural laughter on realizing the comic side of a situation which grown-up people would regard as extremely serious.

Neither her father nor his wife could understand why she should receive in such a spirit an essentially serious communication—the most serious that any young woman could receive. They had not before them the ludicrous picture that presented itself to her imagination—a picture of the Roman Rauzzini on the one side and the Poultry Barlowe on the other, asking her to choose between them. It was this presentiment, coming in a flash the moment she realized that the publishing of the book was not the question which she had to face, that forced her to yield to that long fit of laughter.

Her father and stepmother sat stolidly by, but she knew that had she and her father been alone, he would at least have smiled with her.

In a few minutes she had recovered herself sufficiently to be able to apologize for her levity.

“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I am behaving like a goose, but I could not help it—something forced me—something that occurred to me—a funny thing. I am very sorry.”

“There is nothing funny that I can see in the honourable request made by an honest young man, my dear Fanny,” said Mrs. Burney.

“No, no; nothing whatever; only—well, funny ideas will occur to foolish people like myself at the most serious moments,” said Fanny.

“That is quite true, indeed,” said her father. “I have myself experienced what you say. Perhaps, after all, I should not have blurted out what I had to tell you—it came to you as a surprise, I doubt not.”

“A great surprise, indeed,” she replied. “I cannot understand how Mr. Barlowe could ever fancy that I—that he—that—oh, I should have known what that terrible entertainment was meant to lead to—but when, in that clumsily marked way I was sent into the drawing-room with him alone, he began to talk of his uncle, the Alderman—he said that the Alderman was quite approachable even in regard to ordinary people like ourselves—and then came his cousins—all of them remarkable! But you should have seen him slice away at the ham—the biggest ham I ever saw—it needed to be—such eating!”

“The recollection of that no doubt made you laugh,” said Dr. Burney. “But, at the same time, you must remember that though the customs of the Poultry are not ours, still, they may be very reasonable customs—perhaps more reasonable than our own. It may suit us to dine as late as half-past four and only to have a slice of cake with our tea; but business people find it more convenient to dine at one o’clock—it makes an equal division of their long working-day—so that a slice of ham—”

“I know that is quite true, and I was not so foolish as to give myself airs because I had dined at half-past four and had no appetite for ham,” said Fanny; “but—oh, mother, you saw how foolishly formal was the whole thing.”

“I said that I thought it quite unnecessarily formal,” replied Mrs. Burney, “and if I had had any notion that it was going to be like that I would certainly have given Mrs. Barlowe a hint. Still, Thomas is, I know, an excellent young man who has never given his parents an hour’s uneasiness, and his intentions are honourable, and so should be honoured. If you have no tender regard for him at present that is no reason why, when you get accustomed to the thought of him as a suitor for your hand—”

“Oh, mother, that is quite impossible!” cried Fanny. “How could I ever get accustomed to such a thought?”

“I do not know why you should not,” replied Mrs. Burney. “He is a most worthy young man, and Mr. Barlowe’s business is one of the best in the City. You must remember, my dear Fanny, that in these days a girl, unless she has a portion, runs a very great chance of becoming an old maid, so that no opportunity of settling down in a comfortable home should be neglected.”

“That is perfectly true,” said Dr. Burney. “You will understand that we have no desire to force this or any match upon you, my dear child: so long as I have a house over my head you shall share it. But I am sure that you must know that I am a poor man to-day, although I have worked as hard at my profession as any living man, and I cannot provide you or your sisters with any portion. Heaven knows that if I had a fortune I would gladly divide it among you; but as it is, I think it right to tell you that you need expect nothing.”

“Dearest father,” said Fanny, dissolving into tears, as she took his hand and kissed it, “I have never expected a fortune from you—not a penny piece. I know that I shall be portionless, and I daresay that Mr. Barlowe thinks himself generous in his proposal; but I could never bring myself to accept him—to look on him as a suitor. It would be quite impossible. If I thought it possible that I should ever have any affection for him, I might feel myself justified in encouraging him; but I know that it would be out of the question. I would prefer to go forth and beg my bread—nay, to starve.”

“Then we shall pursue the matter no farther for the present,” said her father, kissing her on the forehead as she nestled close to him.

“Yes, that is best—for the present,” acquiesced his wife. “Still, if you will be advised by me, my dear Fanny, you will remember that Mr. Barlowe is ready to address you knowing that you will be portionless, and if you bear that in mind, perhaps you will be surprised to find some day, not so far distant, that the thought of him is not so repugnant to you. You are no longer a girl, and when one is midway between twenty and thirty every extra year counts in reducing one’s chances of being settled in life. I could cite dozens of instances that I have known of young women being glad to accept at twenty-eight the suitors they scorned at twenty or twenty-five. Oh, yes, the years come upon one and bring with them a clearer vision of life and love; frequently they bring regret for opportunities neglected. But we will not press the matter any farther—just now. I dare say the young man will submit to be put off—for a time.”

“Nay, for ever,” said Fanny resolutely.

“Oh, well,” said her stepmother.

After a pause, during which Fanny seemed to be debating some matter in her mind, a little line showing itself along her forehead, she said slowly:

“I do not think that I shall be a burden on you, dear father; I believe that one day I may be able to do something.”

“Do not fancy that I would ever think of you as a burden, my dear child,” said her father. “But what do you mean by saying that you may one day do something?—some work, do you suggest?”

“Something—I am fond of writing,” she murmured.

He laughed gently, saying:

“You are a very good girl, my love, and I know how much I am indebted to you for your admirable copying of my notes for the History; but do not let the idea take hold of you that such work is well paid. If you ever get in touch with a bookseller, he will tell you that the work of a copyist is very poorly paid.”

“I was not thinking of copying,” murmured Fanny.

“Of what then, pray?” he asked.

“If I could but write a book,” she replied, with her eyes on the floor.

“A book!” cried Mrs. Burney, who thought that she had been silent long enough. “A book!”

“To be sure—to be sure,” said her father, in the indulgent tone of a parent humouring a child. “You might write a book—so might anyone who could pay for a ream of paper, a bottle of ink and a box of quills. You should speak to Mr. Newbery about it: he has printed many nursery stories since ‘Goody Two Shoes.’ You might indeed do something that the children would take a fancy to. Well, Francis Newbery is as honest a man as his uncle, and we may talk to him about it. By the by, did not you once tell me that you had written something, or that you were going to write something? You thought it proper to get my leave. I had forgotten that. Well, if it be a moral nursery story, we might interest Mr. Newbery in it.”

“I do not think that it is quite wise to encourage a girl to neglect her useful household duties in order to compile some rubbish that no one would read,” said Mrs. Burney.

“Of course you will understand that you are not to neglect your household duties, Fanny,” said her father.

“If she performs her household duties and sticks to her needlework, she will have no time left for scribbling rubbish,” cried Mrs. Burney, hastily. “She made a bonfire of all that childish nonsense long ago, and I hope that she will never be so foolish as to waste good paper and pens and, most precious of all, good time, over such exercises. That is all we have to say just now, I think—is it not, Doctor? I shall reply to Mr. Barlowe’s letter—a most creditable letter—straightforward—honourable! I am only sorry that I cannot make the reply to it that it deserves.”

She had opened the door and called for William, their manservant, to remove the breakfast things. Fanny lingered for a few minutes after she had risen from her chair. She had assumed from the moment she had begun to speak of writing, that her opportunity had come; if her stepmother had not interposed so hastily and so emphatically, she would have made her confession as to “Evelina,” let the consequences be what they might; but now that the servant had come with his tray and her stepmother jingled her key-basket, she perceived that her chance was gone. She had a sense of sneaking out of the room.

As she went slowly up the stairs she could hear the voice of her stepmother remonstrating with her father for having said something that she, Fanny, might regard as encouragement to waste her precious time in the pursuit of such folly as writing a book.

She heard her father’s little laugh as he explained (she was sure) that of course he had not been speaking seriously; but that he had not the heart to be severe upon her and her harmless scribbling.

The author of “Evelina” went very slowly upstairs, and when she reached the work-room landing she found Susy and Lottie waiting for her, glowing with excitement. Susy was waving over her head what seemed to be a bulky pamphlet. Coming closer, Fanny saw that it was the chief of the literary reviews, which had apparently just arrived at the house.

“A splendid column about ‘Evelina,’” she whispered. “Not so good as it should be, but still splendid. Here it is. But why are you so glum? Surely they did not scold you now that the book is so great a success.”

“They did not ask me to tarry in the room to charge me with double-dealing in regard to the book,” said Fanny. “They would not allow me to make my confession when I had the opportunity—the best that I shall ever have. ’Twas not my confession that was on the tapis, but quite another. That is why I look glum.”

“Another—another confession? But what had either of them to confess?” cried Lottie.

“Nothing. They didn’t confess.”

“But whose confession was it, then, if not theirs?” asked Lottie.

“It was young Mr. Barlowe’s,” said Fanny, with a lugubriousness that was quite comic. “Young Mr. Barlowe wrote to the padre to confess that he was passionately—madly—in love with me, and threatening to drown himself unless permission were given to him to address me—we all know how fervently young Mr. Barlowe would put his case—that was what I was summoned to listen to—the fiery letter—only it was too ardent for my ears: I was only told its purport.”

“But who would ever have thought that he had it in him?” cried Susy. “Such impudence! I never dreamt that he could rise to such a height of impudence or I should have thought better of him.”

“’Tis not too late yet, my child,” said Fanny. “You are at liberty to think as highly of Thomas as you please—or as it would please him. Please take over his blighted affections and it will be a weight off my mind. Now give me a chance of reading my splendid review—not that I care in the least what these foolish critics may say of me—I care nothing, I tell you, only if you do not let me see it at once I shall die at your feet.”

“There it is,” said Susy, “a full column! The idea of anyone written of in such terms being proposed to by Thomas Barlowe! Such impudence indeed!”