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.
"Read him, read him--THAT will be an education in decency," I
constantly repeated; while, seeking him in his works even as God in
nature, she represented herself as convinced that, according to my
assurance, this was the system that had, as she expressed it,
weaned her. We read him together when I could find time, and the
generous creature's sacrifice was fed by our communion. There were
twenty selfish women about whom I told her and who stirred her to a
beautiful rage. Immediately after my first visit her sister, Mrs.
Milsom, came over from Paris, and the two ladies began to present,
as they called it, their letters. I thanked our stars that none
had been presented to Mr. Paraday. They received invitations and
dined out, and some of these occasions enabled Fanny Hurter to
perform, for consistency's sake, touching feats of submission.
Nothing indeed would now have induced her even to look at the
object of her admiration. Once, hearing his name announced at a