She told no one , but concocted a ` thrilling tale ' , and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood , editor of the Weekly Volcano . She had never read Sartor Resartus , but she had a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over many than the worth of character or the magic of manners . So she dressed herself in her best , and trying to persuade herself that she was neither excited nor nervous , bravely climbed two pairs of dark and dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room , a cloud of cigar smoke , and the presence of three gentlemen , sitting with their heels rather higher than their hats , which articles of dress none of them took the trouble to remove on her appearance . Somewhat daunted by this reception , Jo hesitated on the threshold , murmuring in much embarrassment ... `` Excuse me , I was looking for the Weekly Volcano office . I wished to see Mr. Dashwood . '' Down went the highest pair of heels , up rose the smokiest gentleman , and carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers , he advanced with a nod and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep . Feeling that she must get through the matter somehow , Jo produced her manuscript and , blushing redder and redder with each sentence , blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the occasion . `` A friend of mine desired me to offer -- a story -- just as an experiment -- would like your opinion -- be glad to write more if this suits . '' While she blushed and blundered , Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript , and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers , and casting critical glances up and down the neat pages . `` Not a first attempt , I take it ? '' observing that the pages were numbered , covered only on one side , and not tied up with a ribbon -- sure sign of a novice . `` No , sir . She has had some experience , and got a prize for a tale in the Blarneystone Banner . '' `` Oh , did she ? '' and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look , which seemed to take note of everything she had on , from the bow in her bonnet to the buttons on her boots . `` Well , you can leave it , if you like . We 've more of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at present , but I 'll run my eye over it , and give you an answer next week . '' Now , Jo did not like to leave it , for Mr. Dashwood did n't suit her at all , but , under the circumstances , there was nothing for her to do but bow and walk away , looking particularly tall and dignified , as she was apt to do when nettled or abashed . Just then she was both , for it was perfectly evident from the knowing glances exchanged among the gentlemen that her little fiction of ` my friend ' was considered a good joke , and a laugh , produced by some inaudible remark of the editor , as he closed the door , completed her discomfiture . Half resolving never to return , she went home , and worked off her irritation by stitching pinafores vigorously , and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh over the scene and long for next week .
When she went again , Mr. XXXXX was alone , whereat she rejoiced .
Blarneystone Dashwood Jo Resartus Volcano discomfiture first hour influence sentence