I care for nothing in
the world but what people say of you.--And yet I don't care one pin; I
know what your poems are, if nobody else does; and they belong to me,
because you belong to me, and I must be the best judge, and care for
nobody, no not I!"--And she began singing, and then hung over him,
tormenting him lovingly while he read.
It was a true American review, utterly extravagant in its laudations,
whether from over-kindness, or from a certain love of exaggeration and
magniloquence, which makes one suspect that a large proportion of the
Transatlantic gentlemen of the press must be natives of the sister
isle: but it was all the more pleasant to the soul of Elsley.
"There," said Lucia, as she clung croodling to him; "there is a pretty
character of you, sir! Make the most of it, for it is all those
Yankees will ever send you."
"Yes," said Elsley, "if they would send one a little money, instead of
making endless dollars by printing one's books, and then a few more by
praising one at a penny a line."
"That's talking like a man of business: if instead of the review, now,
a cheque for fifty pounds had come, how I would have rushed out and
paid the bills!"
"And liked it a great deal better than the review?"
"You jealous creature! No. If I could always have you praised, I'd
live in a cabin, and go about the world barefoot, like a wild Irish
girl."
"You would make a very charming one."
"I used to, once, I can tell you, Valencia and I used to run about
without shoes and stockings at Kilanbaggan, and you can't think how
pretty and white this little foot used to look on a nice soft carpet
of green moss.
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