I like it pretty well myself.

It has an effective leading idea." Her father laughed, and threw her a line of Horace which she did not understand.

"Don't let it take too much time from your other work," he warned her.

"It's sure, you know, to be an arrant imitation of somebody, while in your other things you have never been anybody but yourself." He looked at her in a way that disarmed his words, and went back to his _Revue Bleue_.
"Dear old thing! You want to prepare me for anything, don't you?
I wonder whom I've imitated! Hardy, I think, most of all--but then it's such a ludicrously far-away imitation! If there's nothing in the thing but _that_, it deserves to fall as flat as flat.

But there is, daddy!" Cardiff laid down his journal again at the appealing note.
"No!" she cried, "I won't bore you with it now; wait till the proofs come.