There was not a single word of abuse in it, yet when she put it down, she was disappointed. It sounded as though he were reviewing books for children. The whole tone was condescending. She wrote “very well for a lady,” “did not concern herself with the serious problems of society,” “had a knack for turning a telling phrase,” “stuck to what she knew and did so well,” and “was a careful craftsman.” Had she been reading the article without knowing herself the subject, she would not have been tempted to run out and buy the books. She felt a bit dispirited. She gave it to her mama and Clarence to look over, and they expressed a view exactly contrary to hers. They were delighted with the criticism, and congratulated her on her good luck in being brought to public attention.

She was talked around to thinking she was fortunate. She had expected too much. She knew her canvas to be small, that point was well taken. To a learned man like Dr. Ashington, her stories must indeed seem childish. Any lingering sense of pique she felt against the Doctor was banished when he called to pick up his copy a day later and invited her to a dinner party. Coleridge would be there, and Miss Burney, he told her.

“It is time you met the other writers of your generation. One cannot write in a vacuum.”

“I have met Miss Burney,” she replied.

“Indeed?” He did not appear pleased with this. He had wanted to confer the treat himself. He stayed to tea, and impressed the family with his talk of philosophy and history, half of it in Latin quotations. Goethe and Kant rolled off his tongue, too, as easily as Smith and Brown and Jones. He mentioned rare tomes of which he had the only copies in existence. His library numbered five thousand volumes, he announced.

Clarence didn’t bother mentioning the two shelves he had installed in his niece’s study, or take the Doctor to see them. In fact, Clarence was reduced to near silence, saying only ‘indeed,’ or ‘you are quite right,’ or ‘I have often thought so’ at suitable pauses, or nearly suitable. He sometimes erred, being Clarence. Prudence was invited to view the five thousand books and glean what knowledge she could from surveying their Morocco leather bindings and reading a dozen titles. Within the hour three books were opened for her inspection, but as they were in Latin, Greek and Russian, she could do no more than comment on the clarity of the print and say she wished she could read those languages. Ashington smiled grandly, saying that he would be happy to translate any passage she was interested in, as he was quite familiar with all three tongues, and three others. But one set of foreign symbols looked very much like another, and she selected no passage for translation.

“A lady is better off not bothering her head with these things,” he said, nodding in approval, and they went to take a glass of sherry and a stale macaroon with his mother.

When Prudence arrived home, she was told that Dammler had called, and taken his manuscript with him.

“He will speak to you about it another time,” Clarence told her. “He is anxious to hear what you have to say about it. I told him he would do better to hand it over to Dr. Ashington for criticism. He would know whether there is anything in it, but he declined. He was in a bad skin about something or other. Didn’t stay a minute.”

“Did he say when he would come back?” Prudence asked.

“No, but he will likely come by later in the day, or tomorrow. We had a little chat about Goethe and Kant, but he only stayed a minute.” Prudence’s eyes rounded at this, and she wished more than ever that she had been home, instead of inhaling dust and wisdom in Dr. Ashington’s library.

“I have been thinking, Prue,” Clarence continued, “we ought to add another row of shelves in your study. I see you have those two shelves all filled up, and I daresay there are a dozen more books lying around the house that might be there. I have a Bible in my room, and there is a dictionary somewhere that Anne used to use, to say nothing of the Backwoods Review I have subscribed to. We will want to keep those issues to refer to.”

“Have you subscribed to it, Uncle?”

“Indeed I have. I have been letting up on my reading a bit lately, but there is nothing like books when you come down to it.I daresay all the titles would be listed there, and a word or two to tell you about them. I shall certainly put a book in Dr. Ashington’s hand when I paint him. What a lot of books the man reads. He is worn to the bone with them.”

Two days later, the day of Dr. Ashington’s dinner party, the monthly copy of Blackwood’s Magazine was published and the Doctor personally brought a copy to Prudence. He caught her at work with her cap off and looked a little surprised. “Well, Miss Mallow,” he said, “I have caught you en dishabille. But we are old friends now, and you needn’t blush at my finding you so.”

She looked questioningly at him, and he stood staring at her pretty little face, as he found it. “You are without your cap,” he chided.

“Oh, yes, I sometimes work without it.” Especially when I am expecting Lord Dammler, she thought. He hadn’t been to see her in several days.

“I shall leave the door open,” he said, carefully opening the door wide behind him. Prudence felt he was surprised that she didn’t call her mother to chaperone them. Strange, even with the door open, the place seemed stuffy today.

“You see what I have here?” he asked, handing her the magazine. “Your name in print.”

She accepted it and thanked him.

“I came to bring it to you, and to tell you there is no need for you to have your uncle’s carriage wait for you this evening, or return for you. I will be happy to conduct you home after the evening is over. You will hear some good talk. Coleridge is an interesting speaker, and Dammler makes a good joke.”

“Is Dammler coming?” she asked. Not having seen him lately, she had not heard this before.

“He did not send in an acceptance until yesterday. He is a bit careless of the formalities, I fear. I should have been out in my numbers had he not accepted, but someone could always be found at the last minute. There are many writers who would be happy to accept a last-minute invitation from me, and would not feel ill-used to do so.”

“I am sure they would be happy to come.”

“I shall leave you in peace to peruse the article. Until tonight then. I quite look forward to having you at my table.”

His smile was warmer than formerly, and Prudence had a sinking feeling that there was some significance to all these marks of attention the great man was bestowing on her. But she was curious to see how the same words she had read in handwriting looked in print, and soon forgot it. She read the whole thing again, and set it aside with not a smile, but not a frown either.

In his rooms in the Albany, Dammler was similarly occupied in reading his copy of the review. He read his own first, shrugged his shoulders and turned to Miss Mallow’s. He began with a smile that rapidly faded, then became a frown. His indignation turned to wrath as he read, and when he flung it aside he said, “The swine!” in a contemptuous voice.

He was in a foul mood when he left for Ashington’s, and his mood did not improve to find Prudence there before him, seated between Ashington and his mother, and being treated as quite a member of the family. Nor did she seem the least incensed at the carving Ashington had given her work, but was smiling agreeably and hanging on the old fool’s every word, as if he were Solomon, spouting off some words of wisdom. The final straw was that she wore her damned cap, and a grandmother’s gown that made her look forty. She was fixing herself up to appeal to that great pretentious ass of an Ashington. He wanted to shake her.

“Ah, Lord Dammler, we are just discussing the latest issue of Blackwood’s, ”the host said, making him welcome.

“Can we not find a more interesting subject?” Dammler asked with a charming smile and a bow to all the assembled company. He was the last to arrive.

Ashington’s eyes narrowed at this remark, and Prudence’s widened. “It cannot be of interest to the other writers among us-and non-writers,” he added, acknowledging Mrs. Ashington and a Mr. Pithy, neither of whom was in the field of writing. There was another woman present to whom no one introduced him.

“I hope Mr. Coleridge and Miss Burney are broad-minded enough to be interested in writing other than their own,” Ashington said in reply.

“Do you?” Dammler asked, and took up the last spare seat in the room. “You expect too much of people, Doctor. One would not have thought from your writing that you expected the ladies to be interested in anything but food and frocks.”

“Oh, more than that, Dammler. You are too hard on me. They may legitimately lay claim to an interest in society and human relationships. I fancy they know as much about that as any of us.”

“A good deal more than some of us,” Dammler replied haughtily. “But as you are speaking of the magazine, let us hear what Miss Mallow thought of her review.”

“I was pleased with it,” she answered promptly.

“Very complimentary,” Miss Burney took it up. “You were quite right in pointing out her craftsmanship, Dr. Ashington. Certainly Miss Mallow has mastered her craft remarkably well for such a young writer.” She saw she had been too hasty in cutting Miss Mallow, and had full intention of taking her up again.

“That would be just praise for a good carpenter,” Dammler parried, “but Miss Mallow does not deal in wood, fashioning tables and chairs. Craftsmanship in a writer is the polish on the diamond. You forget the quality of the stone, Doctor.”

“I disagree with you, Dammler," Coleridge spoke out in stentorian tones, looking very like a statue with his egg-shaped head and Grecian nose. “Craftsmanship is all in a writer. My subject matter has been considered odd by some, but the manner of writing has always given me a good audience.”