''Sometimes,'' I say, not looking up, ''I suppose such a plate must be pasted upon my own flesh—that I have been ticketed, and noted and shelved—so nearly do I resemble one of my uncle''s books.'' I raise my eyes to his. My face is warm, but I am speaking coolly, still. ''You said, two nights ago, that you have studied the ways of this house. Surely, then, you have understood. We are not meant for common usage, my fellow books and I. My uncle keeps us separate from the world. He will call us poisons; he says we will hurt unguarded eyes. Then again, he names us his children, his foundlings, that have come to him, from every corner of the world—some rich and handsomely provided for, some shabby, some
injured, some broken about the spine, some gaudy, some gross. For all that he speaks against them, I believe he likes the gross ones best; for they are the ones that other parents—other bookmen and collectors, I mean—cast out. I was like them, and had a home, and lost it—''
Now I do not speak coolly. I have been overtaken by my own words. Mr Rivers watches, then leans to take my uncle''s book very gently from its stand.
''Your home,'' he murmurs, as his face comes close to mine. ''The madhouse. Do you think very often of your time there? Do you think of your mother, and feel her madness in you?—Mr Lilly, your book.'' My uncle has looked over. ''Do you mind my handling it? Won''t you show me, sir, the features that mark it as rare . . .?''