You won''t have cause to complain, of my recommendation?''
''No.''
''Well, I am relieved to hear it.''
He will always say too much, for the sport of the thing. My uncle is watching. ''What''s this?'' he says now.
I wipe my mouth. ''My new maid, Uncle,'' I answer. ''Miss Smith, who replaces Miss Fee. You''ve seen her, often.''
''Heard her, more like, kicking the soles of her boots against my library door. What of her?''
''She came to me on Mr Rivers''s word. He found her in London, in need of a place; and was so kind as to remember me.''
My uncle moves his tongue. ''Was he?'' he says slowly. He looks from me to Richard, from Richard back to me, his chin a little raised, as if sensing dark currents. ''Miss Smith, you say?''
''Miss Smith,'' I repeat steadily, ''who replaces Miss Fee.'' I neaten my knife and fork. ''Miss Fee, the papist.''
''The papist! Ha!'' He returns excitedly to his own meat. ''Now, Rivers,'' he says as he does it.
''Sir?''
''I defy you—positively defy you, sir!—to name me any institution so nurturing of the atrocious acts of lechery as the Catholic Church of Rome
He does not look at me again until supper is ended. Then has me read for an hour from an antique text, The Nunns'' Complaint Against the Fryars.
Richard sits and hears me, perfectly still. But when I have finished and rise to leave, he rises also: ''Let me,'' he says. We walk together the little way to the door. My uncle does not lift his head, but keeps his gaze on his own smudged hands. He has a little pearl-handled knife, its ancient blade sharpened almost to a crescent, with which he is paring the skin from an apple—one of the small, dry, bitter apples that grow in the Briar orchard.