''Well, both,'' Mr Hawtrey says; ''but I meant the statue. Miss Lilly shows as pale, don''t you think?'' He takes my hand. ''How my daughters would envy you! They eat clay, you know, to whiten their complexions? Pure clay'' He shakes his head. ''I do think the fashion for pallor a most unhealthy one. As for you, Miss Lilly, I am struck again—as I always am, when I must leave you!—by the unfairness of your uncle keeping you here in such a miserable, mushroom-like way.''
''I am quite used to it,'' I say quietly. ''Besides, I think the gloom makes me show paler than I am. Does Mr Rivers not go with you?''
''The gloom is the culprit. Really, Mr Lilly, I can barely make out the buttons on my coat. Do you mean never to join civilised society, and bring gas to Briar?''
''Not while I keep books,'' says my uncle.
''Say never, then. Rivers, gas poisons books. Did you know?''
''I did not,'' says Richard. Then he turns to me, and adds, in a lower voice: ''No, Miss Lilly, I am not to go up to London just yet. Your uncle has been kind enough to offer me a little work among his prints. We share a passion, it seems, for Morland.''
His eye is dark—if a blue eye can be dark. Mr Hawtrey says,
''Now Mr Lilly, how''s this for an idea: What say, while the mounting of the prints is in progress, you let your niece make a visit to Holywell Street? Shouldn''t you like a holiday, Miss Lilly, in London? There, I see by your look that you should.''