Imprudent Lady Read Free Page B

also is capable of understanding—though one might be forgiven for doubting it from what he writes. Do give him my regards."
    “Come after dinner for the speeches."
    Dammler stared, the brilliance from his one visible eye conveying worlds of astonishment. " What— purposely commit myself to sit for hours on a hard chair to listen to undeserved praise being heaped on Mr. Wordsworth. You are run mad, John. Mad as a hatter."
    “Well after the speeches then. Come in about ten o'clock, just to meet Wordsworth and say how do you do."
    “Oh, very well, if I happen to be in the vicinity. Pulteney's you say?"
    “Yes,” Murray smiled, taking this, as indeed it was meant to be taken, as a promise.
    An invitation to the same party was extended by letter to Miss Mallow as a special treat. Murray had a good notion of the dull existence the poor girl led and wished to do her a favour. She was thrown into transports of delight, and for five days was in a fever of happy activity having a new gown made up, and dreaming of the famous people she would meet. This was her first foray into public literary life, and she looked forward to at last meeting other authors. Murray told her Fanny Burney would be there and had expressed a particular desire to meet her. Miss Burney was the most famous female writer of the period. Prudence felt she had reached the pinnacle of fame. It never occurred to her Lord Dammler might attend.
    He might as well not have for all the effect her presence had on him. Murray introduced them just as Dammler was about to slip out the door fifteen minutes after his arrival. Neither Murray nor Wordsworth regretted his hasty departure. Once he had ambled in attention had been pretty well diverted from the guest of honour. It had taken a team of six strong men to get Wordsworth through the crowd surrounding the young poet. They shook hands and exchanged compliments unheard due to the general noise.
    “Oh, Dammler, here is someone you ought to know,” Murray said as Dammler headed for the door. Prudence had managed to sidle up to get a better look at him without being discovered. “Miss Prudence Mallow, one of my rising writers."
    “Charmed, Miss Mallow,” the poet said in his drawling voice, with a formal bow from the waist and a smile that kept Prudence from work for two days.
    She nearly forgot to curtsy, but stood staring at Dammler with an awestruck expression, taking in every detail of his face and form. She hadn't known such perfection existed on earth. In fact, she had to step up her idea of heaven upon seeing him.
    Familiar with this reaction on the part of young ladies, Dammler shouldered the burden of conversation and asked, “What Is it you write, Miss Mallow, novels or poetry?"
    “Poetry,” she answered, with no intention of deceiving him, but not aware of what she said.
    “I shall look forward to reading it,” he told her, and bowed himself away.
    Prudence's daydreaming rose to a higher pitch as a result of this encounter. The hero she had envisioned from the prints and cartoons in magazines and shop windows was filled out, improved, born anew upon a vision of the real man. Around three o'clock that morning as she lay wide awake reliving the evening, she recalled that she had not offered a word of praise to the poet on his work, nor offered to give him a copy of hers, which was surely hinted at by saying he looked forward to reading it. She arose from her bed, lit her taper, and inscribed her own copy to him that instant. The top corner of the first volume was a little dented from having been dropped, but the damage was not very noticeable. She pondered over what message to inscribe, and decided on the formal “Best wishes to Lord Dammler from Miss Mallow.” This book handled by herself would soon rest in his hands. Words and ideas culled from her brain would be transmitted through his eye to his brain. It was an intimacy never looked for. She fell asleep wondering what he would think of her book,