Just as we had done dinner the doctor and the editor came in. The
first had called to fetch the parcel--I mean the manuscript; the
second had come out with him to Appletreewick for a walk. As soon
as the farmer heard that the book was to be sent to London, he
insisted that we should drink success to it all round. The
children, in high glee, were mounted up on the table, with a
glass of currant-wine apiece; the rest of us had ale; the farmer
proposed the toast, and his sailor son led the cheers. We all
joined in (the children included), except the editor--who, being
the only important person of the party, could not, I suppose,
afford to compromise his dignity by making a noise. He was
extremely polite, however, in a lofty way, to me, waving his hand
and bowing magnificently every time he spoke. This discomposed me
a little; and I was still more flurried when he said that he had
written to the London publishers that very day, to prepare them
for the arrival of our book.
"Do you think they will print it, sir?" I ventured to ask.
"My dear madam, you may consider it settled," said the editor,
confidently. "The letter is written--the thing is done. Look upon
the book as published already; pray oblige me by looking upon the
book as published already."
"Then the only uncertainty now is about how the public will
receive it!" said my husband, fidgeting in his chair, and looking
nervously at me.
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