I blush to confess it, but I invited Mr. Paraday that very day to
transcribe into the album one of his most characteristic passages.
I told him how I had got rid of the strange girl who had brought
it--her ominous name was Miss Hurter and she lived at an hotel;
quite agreeing with him moreover as to the wisdom of getting rid
with equal promptitude of the book itself. This was why I carried
it to Albemarle Street no later than on the morrow. I failed to
find her at home, but she wrote to me and I went again; she wanted
so much to hear more about Neil Paraday. I returned repeatedly, I
may briefly declare, to supply her with this information. She had
been immensely taken, the more she thought of it, with that idea of
mine about the act of homage: it had ended by filling her with a
generous rapture. She positively desired to do something sublime
for him, though indeed I could see that, as this particular flight
was difficult, she appreciated the fact that my visits kept her up.
I had it on my conscience to keep her up: I neglected nothing that
would contribute to it, and her conception of our cherished
author's independence became at last as fine as his very own.
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