''Quite sure.''
I took the book from her and looked at the print on the pages. It looked like any book would, to me. So I put it down, and went to the shelves and picked up another. That looked the same. Then I took up another; and that had pictures. You never saw any pictures like them. One was of two bare girls. I looked at Maud, and my heart seemed to shrink.
''You knew it all,'' I said. That''s the first thing I thought. ''You said that you knew nothing, when all the time—''
''I did know nothing,'' she said.
''You knew it all! You made me kiss you. You made me want to kiss you again! When all the time, you had been coming here and—''
My voice broke off. She watched my face. I thought of the times I had come to the library door, heard the smothered rising and falling of her voice. I thought of her reading to gentlemen—to Gentleman—while I sat, eating tarts and custards with Mrs Stiles and Mr Way. I put my hand to my heart. It had shrunk so small and tight, it hurt me.
''Oh, Maud,'' I said. ''If I had only known! To think, of you—'' I began to cry. ''To think of your uncle— Oh!'' My hand flew to my mouth. ''My uncle!'' That thought was queerer than anything. ''Oh!'' I still held the book. Now I looked at it and let it drop as if it burned me. ''Oh!''
It was all I could say. Maud stood very still, her hand upon the desk. I wiped my eyes. Then I looked again at the smears of ink on her fingers.