She scuttled out of the room, head down and blushing furiously, before I could explain that, as an author, I prized nothing so much as readers. When I saw what she had been perusing—a new novel, “Far from the Madding Crowd,” inscribed to me by Thomas Hardy—I was even more impressed. That she could read at all was commendable—that she would make such a good selection was even more so. When Fanny and I had paid a call on him at Max Gate outside Dorchester, Hardy was as flustered as a guinea hen, but gracious and welcoming.
