I shook my head at her, but begged her, at least, to go no further.

“No, no,” cried she, laughing, “leave me alone; the fun will be to make them think it me.”

Howeverp as I learnt at night, when they were gone, Sir Joshua was so very importunate with Mr. Thrale, and attacked him with such eagerness, that he made him confess who it was, as soon as the ladies retired.

Well, to return to our walk.  The Miss Palmers grew more and more urgent.

“Did we indeed,” said the eldest, “dine with the author of ‘Evelina?’”

“Yes, in good truth did you.”

“Why then, ma’am, it was yourself.”

“I shan’t tell you whethir it was or not; but were there not other people at dinner besides me?  What think you of Dr. Calvert?”

“Dr. Calvert? no! no; I am sure it was not he:  besides, they say it was certainly written by a woman.”

“By a woman? nay, then, is not here Lady Ladd, and Miss Burney, and Hester?"(59)

“Lady Ladd I am sure it was not, nor could it be Miss Thrale’s.  O maam!  I begin to think it was really yours!  Now, was it not, Mrs. Thrale?”

Mrs. Thrale only laughed.

“A lady of our acquaintance,” said Miss Palmer, “Mrs. Cholmondeley, went herself to the printer, but he would not tell.”

“Would he not?” cried Mrs. Thrale, “why, then, he’s an honest man.”

“Oh, is he so?—­nay, then, it is certainly Mrs. Thrale’s.”

“well, well, I told you before I should not deny it.”

“Miss Burney,” said she, “pray do you deny it?” in a

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voice that seemed to say,—­I must ask round, though rather from civility than suspicion.

“Me?” cried I, “well no:  if nobody else will deny it, why should I?  It does not seem the fashion to deny it.”

“No, in truth,” cried she; “I believe nobody would think of denying it that could claim it, for it is the sweetest book in the world.  My uncle could not go to bed till he had finished it, and he says he is sure he shall make love to the author, if ever he meets with her, and it should really be a woman!”

“Dear madam,” cried Miss Offy, “I am sure it was you but why will you not own it at once?”

“I shall neither own nor deny anything about it.”

“A gentleman whom we know very well,” said Miss Palmer, “when he could learn nothing at the printer’s, took the trouble to go all about Snow Hill, to see if he could find any silversmith’s.”  “Well, he was a cunning creature!” said Mrs. Thrale; “but Dr. Johnson’s favourite is Mr. Smith.”

“So he is of everybody,” answered she:  “he and all that family; everybody says Such a family never was drawn before.  But Mrs. Cholmondeley’s favourite is Madame Duval; she acts her from morning to night, and ma-foi’s everybody she sees.  But though we all want so much to know the author, both Mrs. Cholmondeley and my uncle himself say they should be frightened to death to be in her company, because she must be such a very nice observer, that there would be no escaping her with safety.”