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Paton looked surprised. “I did not realize your wounds were so recent,” he said.
    In a twinkling I realized the error. He thought that because I had no mourning weeds about me, my father had been dead for some time. I was strangely reluctant to let him know this was not the case. Flouting convention was all well and good when I did not care for the opinion of anyone about me. To behave with so little propriety in front of a thoroughly respectable gentleman like Lord Paton was less comfortable. I rapidly conned my options and settled on Cousin Geoffrey as an excuse.
    “It was not just my father’s will when he passed away a year ago that vexed me. There was a cousin involved as well. A male cousin ...” I left it at that, and hoped with all my heart that Lord Paton would do likewise.
    “He attempted to force an unwanted match on you?” he said. It was more an assertion than a question.
    I nodded. “If my essay seems very strong, there was good reason for it, you see. I know you do not ordinarily review magazines, but—”
    All his compassion dissipated, and he said firmly, “There are many kinds of writing, Miss Nesbitt. Some authors deal with universal human problems, like Shakespeare. The vacillation of a Hamlet, the ambition of a Macbeth, the aging of Lear. Such writing enlightens us regarding the human condition; it is called literature, and is for all time. Other writings are of interest to only a select group—I mean such books as gothic novels, put out by the Minerva and Pepper presses for the entertainment of ladies. They do not attempt to enlighten, but are meant to amuse. The Quarterly is interested in only the former. You understand. It is no slur on your talent.”
    This patronizing speech sent a hot lava gush of anger surging through me. “You would put Rousseau in the former group as well, I assume?”
    “Certainly. Voltaire and Rousseau are the preeminent—”
    “And pray what enlightenment are ladies to take from the Frenchman’s so-called literature? He informed us that we are to be treated like moonlings. I defy that assertion. I did not write my essay to entertain or amuse anyone. I wrote it to enlighten women and men—I had no select group in mind. It deals with an eternal human problem that bedevils fifty percent of the human population. If those are the criteria that constitute literature, then it is a fit work for you to consider.”
    “There is really a little more to it than that,” he said vaguely, with a weary eye, as though it were all too abstruse to be apprehended by a mere female mind. He batted a graceful white hand. “I am referring to style.”
    “You can hardly expect an essay to be written in blank verse. I was indignant. The style is blunt, but the content is very serious.”
    Lord Paton looked quite taken aback. “Then it must be startlingly different from anything else Pepper has published.”
    “You wouldn’t know, as you have decided without ever laying an eye on it that it is akin to a gothic novel.”
    A flash of anger lit his eyes, though he was trying to control it. “Time is finite. The propensity for wo— people to run off at the pen seems infinite. There aren’t enough hours in the day to read everything that is published. One judges by the tone of a publication. Well, for that matter, your essay is not even on the stands yet. How could I have read it? Send me a copy, and I’ll have a look at it. If it merits attention, I’ll do a critique.”
    “Buy it yourself. I’m a professional writer! Those who can write. Those who cannot criticize.”
    His eyes opened up at that. It was obviously the first time Lord Paton had been put in his place. On that uncompromising speech I rose from my chair and strode out of the room, my turban tail adding the final touch of degradation to a humiliating evening. I went to Mrs. Speers’s morning parlor to compose myself. It was my intention to remain there until someone came and told me Lord Paton had left.
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