I imagined that she supposed that
Chillington would ask her to marry him some day, before very
long, and I was sure she would accept him; but it was quite plain
that, if Miss Liston persisted in making Pamela her heroine, she
would have to supply from her own resources a large supplement of
passion. Pamela was far too deficient in the commodity to be
made anything of without such re-enforcement, even by an art more
adept at making much out of nothing than Miss Liston's
straightforward method could claim to be.
A week passed, and then, one Friday morning, a new light burst on
me. Miss Liston came into the garden at eleven o'clock and sat
down by me on the lawn. Chillington and Pamela had gone riding
with the squire, Dora was visiting the poor. We were alone. The
appearance of Miss Liston at this hour (usually sacred to the use
of the pen), no less than her puzzled look, told me that an
obstruction had occurred in the novel. Presently she let me know
what it was.
"I'm thinking of altering the scheme of my story, Mr. Wynne,"
said she. "Have you ever noticed how sometimes a man thinks he's
in love when he isn't really?"
"Such a case sometimes occurs," I acknowledged.
"Yes, and he doesn't find out his mistake----"
"Till they're married?"
"Sometimes, yes," she said, rather as though she were making an
unwilling admission. "But sometimes he sees it before--when he
meets somebody else.
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