But I never do; and so I'm making the most of you." "You can't make too much of me, Miss Triscoe," said Burnamy.
She would not mind his mocking.

"That day you spoke about 'The Maiden Knight', don't you know, I had never heard any talk about books in that way.

I didn't know you were an author then." "Well, I'm not much of an author now," he said, cynically, to retrieve his folly in repeating his poem to her.
"Oh, that will do for you to say.

But I know what Mrs.March thinks." He wished very much to know what Mrs.March thought, too; 'Every Other Week' was such a very good place that he could not conscientiously neglect any means of having his work favorably considered there; if Mrs.
March's interest in it would act upon her husband, ought not he to know just how much she thought of him as a writer?
"Did she like the poem." Miss Triscoe could not recall that Mrs.March had said anything about the poem, but she launched herself upon the general current of Mrs.
March's liking for Burnamy.

"But it wouldn't do to tell you all she said!" This was not what he hoped, but he was richly content when she returned to his personal history.