."Athomeeveryafternoon,ifyou'venothingbettertodo—exceptThursdays."
"I'veneverknownyoudesertyouroldladiesonce,"MissRosseterwassaying,andMr.Bensonwasstoopingovertheparrot'scage,andMissPerrywasmovingtowardsthebell….
Thefireburntclearbetweentwopillarsofgreenishmarble,andonthemantelpiecetherewasagreenclockguardedbyBritannialeaningonherspear.Asforpictures—amaideninalargehatofferedrosesoverthegardengatetoagentlemanineighteenth-centurycostume.Amastifflayextendedagainstabattereddoor.Thelowerpanesofthewindowswereofgroundglass,andthecurtains,accuratelylooped,wereofplushandgreentoo.
LauretteandJacobsatwiththeirtoesinthefendersidebyside,intwolargechairscoveredingreenplush.Laurette'sskirtswereshort,herlegslong,thin,andtransparentlycovered.Herfingersstrokedherankles.
"It'snotexactlythatIdon'tunderstandthem,"shewassayingthoughtfully."Imustgoandtryagain."
"Whattimewillyoubethere?"saidJacob.
Sheshruggedhershoulders.
"To-morrow?"
No,notto-morrow.
"Thisweathermakesmelongforthecountry,"shesaid,lookingoverhershoulderatthebackviewoftallhousesthroughthewindow.
"Iwishyou'dbeenwithmeonSaturday,"saidJacob.
"Iusedtoride,"shesaid.Shegotupgracefully,calmly.Jacobgotup.Shesmiledathim.Assheshutthedoorheputsomanyshillingsonthemantelpiece.
Altogetheramostreasonableconversationamostrespectableroomanintelligentgirl.OnlyMadameherselfseeingJacobouthadaboutherthatleer,thatlewdness,thatquakeofthesurface(visibleintheeyeschiefly),whichthreatenstospillthewholebagofordure,withdifficultyheldtogether,overthepavement.Inshort,somethingwaswrong.
Notsoverylongagotheworkmenhadgiltthefinal"y"inLordMacaulay'sname,andthenamesstretchedinunbrokenfileroundthedomeoftheBritishMuseum.Ataconsiderabledepthbeneath,manyhundredsofthelivingsatatthespokesofacart-wheelcopyingfromprintedbooksintomanuscriptbooksnowandthenrisingtoconsultthecatalogueregainingtheirplacesstealthily,whilefromtimetotimeasilentmanreplenishedtheircompartments.
Therewasalittlecatastrophe.MissMarchmont'spileoverbalancedandfellintoJacob'scompartment.SuchthingshappenedtoMissMarchmont.Whatwassheseekingthroughmillionsofpages,inheroldplushdress,andherwigofclaret-colouredhair,withhergemsandherchilblains?Sometimesonething,sometimesanother,toconfirmherphilosophythatcolourissound—or,perhaps,ithassomethingtodowithmusic.Shecouldneve