"Does it?" said Darrell. "It has been done a good deal."
"Oh, of course," said Kitty, impatiently, "mine's not the proper thing.
You don't imagine I should try and write like Thackeray, do you? Mine's
real people--
real things that happened--with just the names
altered."
"Ah!" said Darrell, sitting up--"that sounds exciting. Is it libellous?"
"Well, that's just what I want to know," said Kitty, slowly. "Of course,
I've made a kind of story out of it. But you'd have to be a great fool
not to guess. I've put myself in, and--"
"And Ashe?"
Kitty nodded. "All the novels that are written about politics
nowadays--except Dizzy's--are such nonsense, aren't they? I just wanted
to describe--from the inside--how a real statesman"--she threw up her
head proudly--"lives, and what he does."
"Excellent subject," said Darrell. "Well--anybody else?"
Kitty flushed. "You'll see," she said, uncertainly.
Darrell's involuntary smile was hidden by a bunch of honeysuckle at
which he was sniffing. "May I look?" he asked, stretching out a hand for
the sheets.
She pushed them towards him, half unwilling, half eager, and he began to
turn them over.
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