'--I suppose you think, Letty," Mary
went on, with a merry air, "that, for the sake of consistency, I
should never do anything but sell behind a counter?"
"In that case," said Letty, "I ought to have married a milkman,
for a dairy is the only thing I understand. I can't help Tom ever
so little!--But I suppose it wouldn't be possible for two to
write poetry together, even if they were husband and wife, and
both of them clever!"
"Something like it has been tried, I believe," answered Mary,
"but not with much success. I suppose, when a man sets himself to
make anything, he must have it all his own way, or he can't do
it."
"I suppose that's it. I know Tom is very angry with the editor
when he wants to alter anything he has written. I'm sure Tom's
right, too. You can't think how much better Tom's way always is!-
-He makes that quite clear, even to poor, stupid me. But then,
you know, Tom's a genius; that's one thing there's _no_
doubt of!--But you haven't told me yet where you are."
"You remember Miss Mortimer, of Durnmelling?"
"Quite well, of course."
"She is Mrs. Redmain now: I am with her."
"You don't mean it! Why, Tom knows her very well! He has been
several times to parties at her house."
"And not you, too?" asked Mary.
"Oh, dear, no!" answered Letty, laughing, superior at Mary's
ignorance. "It's not the fashion in London, at least for
distinguished persons like my Tom, to take their wives to
parties.
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