As I said this, I turned to the last page in search of the name as is usual with editors. There was none. I glanced through the page to see if the lovers ended their lives by poison. New authors seldom permit their heroes or heroines to survive. But I saw that these here were allowed to live, so I became rather hopeful. A doubt arose whether Nirmala herself might not be the writer. Many shy writers present their first efforts as written by a friend. I said—"I will take this home to-day, and let you know to-morrow what I think of it."
That it was written by Nirmala was extremely probable. The words in which I should express my opinion were already cut and dried. I had to do this sort of work, giving an opinion on a friends literary efforts—most days of my life.
The phrases were there; you had but to distribute them: "Very readable in certain parts" "with practice he may become an excellent writer," &c., &c.
One after another, all the members of the family came in. When tea was over, we sat about chatting. There was no further talk af a walk.
CHAPTER VI
On reaching home I read the story. I saw I had made a great mistake. It was no maiden
