hen the cuts leap out.
There are two more courses before I might be excused, and then two more soundings of the clock to be sat through, alone, before the gentlemen join me in the drawing-room. I hear the murmur of their
voices and wonder what, in my absence, they discuss. When they come at last they are all a little pinker in the face, and their breaths are soured with smoke. Mr Hawtrey produces a package, bound in paper and string. He hands it to my uncle, who fumbles with the wrappings.
''So, so,'' he says; and then, with the book uncovered and held close to his eyes: ''Aha!'' He works his lips. ''Look here, Maud, look, at what the little grubbian has brought us.'' He shows me the volume. ''Now, what do you say?''
It is a common novel in a tawdry binding, but with an unfamiliar frontispiece that renders it rare. I look and, despite myself, feel the stirrings of a dry excitement. The sensation makes me queasy. I say, ''A very fine thing for us, Uncle, without a doubt.'' ''See here, the fleuron? You see it?'' ''I see it.''
''I don''t believe we have considered the possibility of such a thing. I am sure we have not. We must go back. And we thought that entry complete? We shall return to it, tomorrow.'' He stretches his neck. He likes the anticipation of pleasure. ''For now—well, take your gloves off, girl. Do you suppose Hawtrey brings us books to have you press gravy into the binding? That''s better. Let''s hear a little of it. Do you sit, and read to us. Huss, you must sit also. Rivers, mark my niece''s voice, how soft and clear she reads. I coached her myself. Well, well.—You crease the spine, Maud!''