ell, well, says my uncle.
I study my ial quite invisible until I turn tal; ts leap out.
to be sat tlemen join me in their
voices and last ttle pinker in trey produces a package, bound in paper and string. to my uncle, whe wrappings.
So, so, o tle grubbian us. do you say?
It is a common novel in a ta ispiece t renders it rare. I look and, despite myself, feel tirrings of a dry excitement. tion makes me queasy. I say, A very fine t a doubt. See ? I see it.
I dont believe go back. And t entry complete? e surn to it, tomorrocicipation of pleasure. For noake your gloves off, girl. Do you suppose rey brings us books to o ts better. Lets tle of it. Do you sit, and read to us. sit also. Rivers, mark my nieces voice, and clear she spine, Maud!
Indeed, Mr Lilly, s, says Mr my uncovered hands.
I place tand and carefully urn a lamp so t its lig upon t. how long shall I read for, Uncle?
s c il t oclock. Noe tell me if you suppose its like may be encountered in any other English drawing-room!
ties; but my uncle is rigrained too rue and makes t s. hen I
rey claps, and Mr roubled. My uncle sits acles removed, an angle, ight.
Poor omorro of t.—Maud, te unbent?
Yes, sir.
ton up my gloves, smoot. I turn t. But I am conscious of myself. I am conscious of Mr Rivers. ly excitement, s a little nervously upon tly and scorce about to gaze into my uncles book-presses—noccime c is rat you like, Miss Lilly, to sit closer to the flames?
I ans.
You like to be cool, he says.
I like the shadows.
akes it as a kind of invitation, lifts , tc rousers and sits beside me, not too close, still racted by t whe shadows.
Mr rey stands at ts a glass. My uncle tled into s est p, sir, by seventy years! tions erature no shoes my horse . . .
I stifle a yaurns to me. I say, Forgive me Vf Rivers.
care for your uncles sub ject.
ill speaks in