I    om, occasionally to invite    ied gentlemen to to take a supper er, hear me read. he does so now.

        Make yourself onigo me, as I stand in toning up my gloves. e ss. rey, ranger. I o employ ing of our pictures.

        Our pictures. ts, in a separate study, filled    my uncle ed in a desultory sort of manner, along en spoken of taking on some man to trim and mount t o matcask. One needs a quite particular cer, for    sort.

        cs out rey claims to    for us, besides. Aion of a text alogued.

        t is great news, sir.

        Per my u mark it. s o to t me see . . .

        May I leave you, Uncle?

        ruck?

        It has, I believe.

        from    c to o , at tem, —s. o —gently, Maud.

        Yes, Uncle.

        No engaged by oo used to ticular rangely, or not at all, and imagines me an ageless cimes t is , tig saso a form I sleap. My uime, I suppose, not quite above fifty—I o ly and permaly aged; as flies remain aged, yet fixed and unging, in cloudy chips of amber.

        I leave ing at a page of text. I ly, in soft-soled so my rooms, where Agnes is.

        I find     a piece of seemperament like mine? I stand and co sitc last I take tly put t of it against    off; t it back; times more, until h a rash of needle-pricks.

        to be gentlemen onig. One a stranger. Do you suppose he will be young, and handsome?

        I say it—idly enougeasing. It is noto me. But she hears me, and colours.

        I t say, miss, surning    drawing her hand away, however. Perhaps.

        You think so?

        be.

        I study ruck h a new idea.

        S if he was?

        Like it, miss?

        Like it, Agnes. It seems to me no you en at turn te private.

        O nonsense!

        Is it? urn your    like it, having a prick upon your palm!

        Sakes , and begins to cry. t of ears—and of    of tender fles I abbed—first stirs, troubles me; tand at my rattling    dips to thames.

        ill you be quiet? I say, c you! tears, fentleman! Dont you kno    be    you knohey never are?

        But of course, h.

        Mr Rie. Later I    to be false—as false as    noand in to make me o doubt ures, evealler t a foot. , but is long: a curl springs from its plad tumbles across s a o it, repeatedly.    for a single finger, stained yelloe we.

        Miss Lilly, oained s to brus back.    ioned in advance, by Mr rey.

        Mr rey is a London bookseller and publisher, and has been

        many times to Briar. akes my . Beleman collector, a friend from my uncles youtakes my    takes it to drao hen kisses my cheek. Dear child, he says.

        I imes surprised by Mr airs. o stand and chem.

        sey.

        But it is Mr Rivers I cell. But, o be o table, I see ate; t to mine. I io c like to be g. Mr ay and Cly about us, filling lasses—mi crystal cup, cut    upon our plates, ts leave: tay ur Briar , as lemen lasts one hour and a half.

        e are served ; t t ts innards devilled and passed about table. Mr rey takes a dainty kidney, Mr Rivers . I s te he offers.

        Im afraid youre not ly, g my face.

        Dont you care foose, Miss Lilly? asks Mr rey. Nor does my eldest daugearful.

        I cears aen to see tears of a girl made into an ink.

        An ink? Doion it to my daug I must s, is oc be he living.

        tears, for ink? says my uncle, a beat be rubbishis?

        Girls tears, says Mr huss.

        Quite colourless.

        I t. truly, sir, I t. I fancy tely tinged—per.

        Perrey, as depending on tion t hem?

        Exactly. You    it, rey, t tears, for a melanc migoo, ;    me and s o h.

        No t tempted. Mr Lilly? One ories of course, of hides and bindings

        time. Mr Rivers listens but says ion is all alk. I . I sip my    suppers like tedious points in small, tigoo many times. Uedly, I teasing a bead of blood from , and I blink.

        So, Rivers, rey tells me ranslating, Frencter into Englisuff, I suppose, if .

        Poor stuff indeed, a it. It is erms; but it udent of ts t I ely to find a better application for my talents, sir, the juring of bad English from worse French.

        ell, ures.

        Very mudeed.

        ell, anot. than for my books, however. Youve heard, perhaps—he pauses—of my Index?

        Mr Rivers ines    sounds a marvellous thing.

        Pretty marvellous—e, are ? Do we blush?

        I know my own s, searcful gaze.

        ly.

        e are close, ansation h finishers.

        And th?

        A thousand pages.

        Mr rey raises emper    it,    wle. her slice of goose.

        to you last.

        For t volume, of course. ter.    t, Rivers?

        Astonishing, sir.

        s like? An universal bibliograp Englishmen.

        t to life. A fantastic ac.

        Fantastideed—more so, exts I collect must cloak tity iion and anonymity. t texts tamped ail as to plad date of publication and impress.    titles. t t pass darkly, via secret . sider to to me, sir, of fantastic labour! rembles in a mirter.

        I ot ceive it, says Mr Rivers. And the Index is anised . . .?

        By title, by name, by date abled, most precisely

        the books?

        tly, Maud?

        tlemen turn to me. I sip my    t, I say, of Men for Beasts.

        My unods. So, so, ance our bibliograpo tudent of t able Bible.

        trey, smiling, enjoying tcill looking early at my uncle.

        A great ambition, he says now.

        A great labour, says Mr huss.

        Indeed, says Mr rey, turning again to me. I am afraid, Miss Lilly, your uncle tio work you very mercilessly.

        I so task, I say, as servants are.

        Servants and young ladies, says Mr    sorts of creatures.    said so, many times? Girls eyes s be    he gripping of pens.

        So my uncle believes, I say, s is o save, of course, not my fingers.

        And inius, so dedicated a collector he sake of his library.

        te,    drive o violence for literatures sake, and we shall never five you.

        tlemen laugh.

        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 ings.

        So, so, o    tle grubbian    us.    do you say?

        It is a on 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 fi a doubt. See ? I see it.

        I dont believe    go back. And    t entry plete? e surn to it, tomorrocicipation of pleasure. For noake yloves off, girl. Do you suppose rey brings us books to o ts better. Lets tle of it. Do you sit, ao 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 oclooe tell me if you suppose its like may be entered in any lish drawing-room!

        ties; but my uncle is rigraioo rue and makes t s. hen I

        rey claps, and Mr roubled. My us acles removed,    an angle, ight.

        Poor omorro of t.—Maud, te u?

        Yes, sir.

        ton up my gloves, smoot. I turn t. But I am scious of myself. I am scious 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 uled into s est p, sir, by seventy years! tioure no shoes my horse . . .

        I stifle a yaurns to me. I say, Five me Vf Rivers.

        care for your uncles sub ject.

        ill speaks in a murmur; and I am obliged to make my oary, I say t is noto me.

        Again alks on It is only curious, to see a lady left cool and unmoved, by t ion.

        But t you speak of; and arent tter best, moved least? I cat experience of t from my reading merely. But I s—o e a palling in eries of    too often to tiny of wafer and wine.

        blink. At last    laughs.

        You are very uniss Lilly

        I look aand.

        Aone is a bitter one. Perion a sort of misfortune.

        On trary.    be a misfortuo be ance, in tter of a gentlemans attentions. I am a oisseur of all ties of metleman migo pliment a lady

        s e o . ted indeed,    only to pliment you.

        I    a gentlemen s, t one.

        Per in t you are used to. But in life—a great many; and o is chief.

        I supposed, I say, t t ten for.

        O, but ten for somet of—money. Every gentleman minds t. And those of us who are

        not quite so gentlemanly as    most of all.—I am sorry to embarrass you.

        I , I o be quite beyond embarrassment. I am only surprised.

        t take a satisfa from t I s o    is someto me, o y of yourdays.

        ingly my cill.

        do you knohose?

        I surmise, from my observation of the house . . .

        No edly:    do you this?

        Of w, sir?

        Of reys g, now, of pography.

        Pography?

        Rivers, says Mr rey. You are a young man. I appeal to you.    t record of tory act—

        Record! says my uncle, peevisary! the age!

        —of tory act, tograp t tograper to t of t is an image of life, and age over it: t it endures,    finish and fade.

        Dot a book endure? asks my uncle, plug at the arm of his chair.

        It e, in a pograp speak tograp in an Englis last us all, and I provoke    in randsons. It is a t from ory.1

        It is gripped by ory! ans is corrupted by it! Its ory    it like so mu

        tting of a slipper, a goograpo yrandson: udy t.    tips of your moustac    you think so Rivers?

        I do, sir.

        You kno alloypes and nonsense like t into my colle?

        I t not to, sir.

        Mr rey so my uncle: You still believe pograp    e to reet, and spend an o c is all our buyers e for.

        Your buyers are brutes.    business    is your opinion as to ty of reys trade . . .?

        te alk until triking of ten oclock—whem.

        t is t. Mr Rivers is due to remain at Briar until Sunday.    day I am kept from t supper cero sit again    e to my side. Saturday I    see urday nigique book, one of —and ts beside me, to study its singular covers.

        You like it, Rivers? asks my uncle as    is very rare?

        I s must be, sir.

        And you t, t ther copies?

        I , yes.

        So you mig ors, y by otem rare, if no-one s it? e call t a dead

        book. But, say a score of identical copies are sougand me?

        Mr Rivers nods. I do. ticle is relative to t    is very quaint. And    we    heard?

        My uncle gro up for au, and see! ha?

        Mr Rivers laugo be sure, yes . . .

        But beyond teness, ful. es eet t    and surprising pink.    rey fusses hen he speaks again.

        And w of a pair of books, Mr Lilly,    by a single buyer? o be valued?

        A pair? My us dowo volumes?

        A pair of plementary titles. A man o secure tly add to t?

        Of course, sir!

        I t it.

        Men pay absurdly for sugs, says Mr huss.

        to sucters, of course, in my Index ..."

        tly; and talk o and listen—or pretend to—and soon urns and studies my face. May I ask you somet do you see, for yourself, after tion of your uncles work?—Now, w?

        I    I suppose must be a bitter sort of smile. I say, Your question means not. My uen t must be added to too many lost books to be rediscovered; too muty. rey will

        debate it for ever. Look at tends,    once begin its supplements.

        You mean to keep beside    time?—I    ansed as he?

        I    last. My skills are fee unon.

        You are a lady, ly, and young, and    speak from gallantry no. I say only rue. You mighing.

        You are a man, I ansrut from ladies. I may do nothing, I assure you.

        ates—perc— marry,    is something.

        ,    I    some parc so . . .

        I    until urned from me agaiion captured. ts stand aly lift its cover. Look e, t is attaco all ?

        te bears rangely, to resemble a p em of briar at t. Mr Rivers tilts o study it, and nods. I let the cover close.

        Sometimes, I say, not looking up, I suppose suce must be pasted upon my oed, and noted and so    I am speaking coolly, still. You said, tood. e are not meant for on usage, my felloe from t unguarded eyes. t o he world—some rid handsomely provided for, some shabby, some

        injured, some broken about t    t; for t ots—otors, I mean—cast out. I    it—

        No speak coolly. I aken by my oco take my uncles book very gently from its stand.

        Your o mien of your time t? ont you sures t mark it as rare . . .?

        ly; and artled me,    like to be startled. I dont like to lose my place. But noo t I ot at for. I discover at last t I    my o my breast. t I am breat t are all at once de seems bleeding into t, is pale as a leaf upon a swelling pool of darkness.

        I    s, for tlemen. But I suppose I range, fazes my way, smiling, e falls. Miss Lilly! akes my hand.

        Mr    is it?    t.

        Mr Rivers    nohe pages.

        t tlemen, curtseying at my uncle, a look of terror on    is not yet ten oclock. I am perfectly    not trouble. I am only tired, suddenly. I am sorry.

        Sorry? Poorey. It is , and overtask your nieiserably.

        I al, and ake your mistresss arm. Go steadily, now.

        Sairs? Mr ands in to mount t I do not catch his eye.

        me for some cool to put upon my face. I finally go to tel, and lean my c the looking-glass.

        Your skirts, miss! says Agnes. She fire.

        I feel queer, dislocated. t c sounds, I ter. I    t    kno, ands aill gathered in her hands.

        trikes. I step back, t    beats a little smoots me in my bed, unlooses tains—no mig, any at all. I ening    my ains I    to be taken y as she slumbers.

        , I unlock my little rait. I y eyes. I t study your face!—but, o, I kno do it or lie sleepless and grow ill. I look o her, he said, and feel her madness in you?

        Do I?

        I put trait a me a tumbler of er. I take a drop of my old medie—t t ake anotill, my    back. My o tingle. Agands and s.    doe stuff of dress. One slender collar-bone is marked a delicate blue    is

        per mig remember—be a bruise.

        I feel t last, sour in my stomach.

        ts all, I say. Go on.

        I o s. ter a little time t groan of mag its gears. I lie and    for sleep. It does not e. Instead, my limbs groless and begin to tcoo    of it, at ts of my fingers and my toes. I raise my ly: Agnes! S    fears to ans last, t up, lie still. trikes. tairs: tlemen are leaving to te chambers.

        Per if I do, it is only for a moment. For suddenly I give a start, and am     movement. Movement, and ligain t, and training against their frames.

        ts mouthing.

        t, after all, t is not like any oto it by a calling voice, I rise. I stand at to Agness room until I am sure, from t sake up my lamp and go, on naked feet, to my drao tand at t tio t I knoime I see not fall of a sill softer. tcilts tohe flame.

        Ricless as I; and he lawns of Briar, perhaps hoping for sleep.

        Cold    tip of te, er tobacco.    . to knoure; only te fades, gloe.

        once I uand he windows.

        ing o my room!—and e fall and crus of it bes    see t. I only    door ope of time, s breath.

        I step back    face: it arted bato to s!    do it! to t my ear against tread. tread gro, anot for Mr ay to go to    for t.

        I take up my lamp and go quickly, quickly: ts of lig time to dress—ot dress,    Ago    kno not see googs, garters, slippers, a cloak. My    is loose, I try to fasten; but I am clumsy    beats quick again, but s against t is like a vessel beating    t my o it, a—unlaced, it feels; unguarded, unsafe.

        But tug of ter tany fear.

        t is t of ter all. For restlessness.    lengtapping at my door o    once, You kno close. One cry will wake hing.

        Do I suppose ry to kiss me?    do t. ealto t ful    so t w hear us? You are sure?

        Do I teps close. But I feel t, still ging to . I smell tobac    remember all. I move to one side of tand tensely, gripping t.    to tween us, and speaks in whispers.

        you. But I o Briar, after so muorroo leave    seeing you. You uand me. I make no judgement on your receiving me like tirs, you are to say t you    I found out your room and came,    invitation. Ive been guilty of as mucs as    once,    onig of and me? I to e?

        I say, I uand t you    somet: t my motic; t my u is , anyone mig; ts . I am forbidden tet it. I am sorry for you, if you meant to profit by it.

        I am sorry, o o remind you of it again. It means noto me, except as it o your ing to Briar and bei by your uncle in suc is ed from your motune.—Youll five my speaking plainly. I am a sort of villain, and knoher

        villai. Your uncle is t kind, for o    tell me you love    is    suit us. But for no a me speak leman to a lady?

        ures and, after a sed—as if ea-tray—ake our places on tgown. urns he folds.

        Noo tell you w I know, he says.

        I kno    from rey. t you—per you, as of some fabulous creature: t Briar, ering moo recite voluptuous texts fentlemen—pero do    tell you all t. ts noto me. rey, at least, is a little kinder; and t, . old me, in a pitying sort of tle of your life—your unfortuations, tions attae in a . . . But rey une, and you are    you are h, Miss Lilly?

        I ate, t is several imes tliest book upon my uncles simes t. the only measure of value I know.

        It is a great sum, says Mr Rivers, g my face.

        I nod.

        It shall be ours, he says, if we marry

        I say nothing.

        Let me be , o Briar, meaning to get

        you in tune, perer. I saen minutes ood t to seduce you o insult you—to make you only a different kind of captive. I dont . I wiso free you.

        You are very gallant, I say. Suppose I dont care to be freed?

        .

        turn my face—afraid t ting of blood, ay cray me to eady. I say, You fet, my longings t for not my uncles books long to leap from them—

        Yes, yes, ience. You o me already. I t often. But, y-eigead I am    too poor in pocket, but nor too easy in it t I s be scrambling to li for a little time to e. Do you t eac. Believe me: I ime t may be misspent, ging to fis and supposing truths.

        ed o s back    o age , and creased from tie. rand of grey.    bulges queerly, as mens ts do: as if inviting t will crus.

        I say, to e o fess yourself a villain, to suppose me o receive you.

        A you ill. You    called for your maid.

        You intrigue me. You he evenness of my days here.

        You seek a distra from t give t, in a moment! gone!—when you marry me.

        I s be serious.

        I am, however.

        You kno you to take me.

        ly. e s, of course, to devious methods.

        You oo?

        t look like t. Dont suppose I am joking. You dont kne. Not tion of a o a    servitude, to la, t terms , t is not y. A liberty of a kind not often grao the members of your sex.

        Yet to be ac laugh—by a marriage?

        to be a unusual ditions. Again    last t    squeamis about t, as anot be? I suppose your maid is really sleeping, and not listening at the door?

        I t say notch.

        God en.

        t a girl to Briar, from London, and install o use     of t over-scrupulous, not too clever in    sune—Say, t believe sion to ask for more.    are a small set, as crooks go; ter all: for o wever s see a s. She will

        suppose me an i, and believe ing in my sedu. S, inte o a—ates, before admitting t, take my place. Sest— as a form of lunacy; and so keep he closer.

        And ory as your moter, your uncles niece— in s, all t marks you as yourself. t! t of your life, as a servant    free your cloak; and you so any part of to any neo suit your fancy.

        ty—ter liberty—o Briar to offer. For payment s my trust, my promise, my future silence; and one une.

        not speaking, my face turned from    a minute.    I say at last is:

        e s.

        once: I think we will.

        t us.

        Sracted by t into rus ss to find t you, , in ?

        And    they look for her?

        ted and robbed t her.

        Fet her?

        of mot. Sime. I dont trouble very    she

        turned out sion    to be cared for, like    ones. c her.

        I gaze away from him. A madhouse . . .

        I am sorry for t,    your oation— your oation— as our crooked girls    see    , all to profit by it, o, for ever.

        I still look a afraid of ir me, myself. I say, You speak as to you. Its the money you care for.

        Ive admitted as muc? But t il our fortune is secure. You may trust yourself, till t to my , say, to my cupidity; side t out. I migeaco profit from it. e    take some ely, of course, , ure    only be silent, to t it. You uand me? Being onitted to t be true to eac speak lig o ture of t you from a kno;

        My uncles care, I say, o sider any strategy t . But—

        s and,    to s my aim t your uncle o vieomorroo resider. But t t, as about everything.

        he passes his hand again before his eyes, and again looks older.

        truck terribly c, all at once.    as fear, or doubt.    last takes my o me; but    is yours— man see you kept doo le and insulted by fello? t I    for anotor: slemen your uncles    for your uo die, and find a liberty t ime, remor,     age? Say ty-five, or forty. You o ting of books, of a kind t rey sells, for a so drapers boys and clerks. Your fortus untouc of a bank. Your solation is to be mistress of Briar— is left to you, one by one.

        As    at    at my o in its slipper. I times igo a form it longs to outgro quite still, to g to kno my future at Briar—for    I , long ago, already cluded for myself; but by t t elling it at all—t ted, and travelled, forty miles—t olen o t of to my dark room, to me.

        Of to o er, ears on my c s—I t all.

        I say, tomorrohinks Rowlandson a hack.

        t is all I say. It is enoug smile—I t like to see    suc.    my fingers and tands, straig. t breaks t of place. I ,    you very late. You must be cold, and tired.

        gto groful. I s be troubled— too troubled—by all Ive said?

        I s I am afraid to rise from tremble upon my legs ao him weak. I say, ill you go?

        You are sure?

        Quite sure. I ster if you leave me.

        Of course.

        o say more. I turn my fad    let ime read upon t, tle opening and closing of t a moment, t my feet, tuck ts of my cloak about my legs, raise my y sofa cushion.

        t my bed, and trait, my box, my maid—about me, t I like to    tonig of tterns urbed. My liberty bes: gaugeless, fearful, iable as death.

        I sleep, and dream I am moving, sly, in a , upon a dark and silent er.
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