''It troubles me, Miss Lilly, to think of how bored you must be, now I have come and taken your uncle''s attention from his Index. I imagine you are longing to return to your work among the books.''
''The books?'' I say. Then, letting my gaze fall to my plate of broken meat: ''Very much, of course.''
''Then I wish I might do something, to make the burden of your days a little lighter. Have you no work—no painting or sketching, material of that sort—that I might mount for you, in my own time? I think you must. For I see you have many handsome prospects, from the windows of the house.''
He raises a brow, as a conductor of music might raise a baton. Of course, I am nothing if not obedient. I say, ''I cannot paint, or draw. I have never been taught it.''
''What, never?—Forgive me, Mr Lilly. Your niece strikes one as being so competent a mistress of the general run of the female arts, I should have said— But, you know, we might remedy this, with very little trouble. Miss Lilly could take lessons from me, sir. Might I not teach her, in my afternoons? I have a little experience in the field: I taught drawing for all of one season at Paris, to the daughters of a Comte.''
My uncle screws up his eyes. ''Drawing?'' he says. ''What would my niece want with that? Do you mean to assist us, Maud, in the making up of the albums?''