And she carried me along with her: all the strong passages were doubly strong when spoken, and the faults, which seemed nothing to her, were made by her earnestness to seem nothing to me, at least for that moment. When it was ended she stood looking at me with a triumphant smile. "Yes," I said, "I like it, and you see that I do. But I like it because my taste is peculiar. To me originality and force are everything--perhaps because I have them not to any marked degree myself--but the world at large will not overlook as I do your absolutely barbarous shortcomings on account of them. Will you trust me to go over the drama and correct it at my pleasure?" This was a vast deal for me to offer; I was surprised at myself. "No," she answered softly, still smiling. "There shall not be so much as a comma altered." Then she sat down and fell into a reverie as though she were alone. "Have you written anything else?" I said after a while, when I had become tired of the silence. "Yes." "Can I see it? Or is it _them_?" "It is _them_. Yes, you can see all." "I will call upon you for the purpose." "No, you must not," she said, coming back to the present nervously. "I prefer to come to you." At this moment Simpson entered to light the room, and busied himself rather longer than was necessary over the task. When he finally went out I saw that my visitor's manner had sunk into its former depression: the presence of the servant seemed to have chilled her. "When did you say I might come?" I repeated, ignoring her refusal. "I did not say it. It would be impossible." "Well, then, when will you come here?" There was, I fear, a trace of fatigue in my tone. "At your good pleasure, sir," she answered humbly. My chivalry was touched by this: after all, she was a woman. "Come to-morrow," I said. "By the way, come and dine with me then; why not?" I was curious to see what she would reply. "Why not, indeed? Yes, I will come. I am forty-three: I might have been your mother." This was not quite true, as I am over thirty: but I look young, while she--Well, I had thought her over fifty. "I can hardly call you 'mother,' but we might compromise upon 'aunt,'" I said, laughing. "Aunt what?" "My name is Aaronna," she gravely answered. "My father was much disappointed that I was not a boy, and gave me as nearly as possible the name he had prepared--Aaron." "Then come and dine with me to-morrow, and bring with you the other manuscripts, Aaronna," I said, amused at the quaint sound of the name. On the whole, I did not like "aunt." "I will come," she answered.