And now, in her fencing skirts of black and her black stockings, she was exceedingly ornamental, with the severe lines of the plastron accenting the white throat and chin, and the scarlet heart blazing over her own little heart—­unvexed by such details as love and lovers.  Yes, unvexed; for she had about come to the conclusion that her father had frightened her more than was necessary; that the instrument had not really done its worst; in fact, that, although she had been very disobedient, she had had a rather narrow escape; and nothing more serious than paternal displeasure was likely to be visited upon her.

Which comforted her to an extent that brought a return of appetite; and she rang for luncheon, and ate it with the healthy nonchalance usually so characteristic of her and her sisters.

“Now,” she reflected, “I’ll have to wait an hour for my bath”—­one of the inculcated principles of domestic hygiene.  So, rising, she strolled across the gymnasium, casting about for something interesting to do.

She looked out of the back windows.  In New York the view from back windows is not imposing.

Tiring of the inartistic prospect she sauntered out and downstairs to see what her maid might be about.  Bowles was sewing; Sybilla looked on for a while with languid interest, then, realizing that a long day of punishment was before her, that she deserved it, and that she ought to perform some act of penance, started contritely for the library with resolute intentions toward Henry James.

As she entered she noticed that the bookshelves, reaching part way to the ceiling, were shrouded in sheets.  Also she encountered a pair of sawhorses overlaid with boards, upon which were rolls of green flock paper, several pairs of shears, a bucket of paste, a large, flat brush, a knife and a T-square.

“The paper hanger man,” she said.  “He’s gone to lunch.  I’ll have time to seize on Henry James and flee.”

Now Henry James, like some other sacred conventions, was, in that library, a movable feast.  Sometimes he stood neatly arranged on one shelf, sometimes on another.  There was no counting on Henry.

Sybilla lifted the sheets from the face of one case and peered closer.  Henry was not visible.  She lifted the sheets from another case; no Henry; only G.P.R., in six dozen rakish volumes.

Sybilla peeped into a third case.  Then a very unedifying thing occurred.  Surely, surely, this was Sybilla’s disobedient day.  She saw a forbidden book glimmering in old, gilded leather—­she saw its classic back turned mockingly toward her—­the whole allure of the volume was impudent, dog-eared, devil-may-care-who-reads-me.

She took it out, replaced it, looked hard, hard for Henry, found him not, glanced sideways at the dog-eared one, took a step sideways.

“I’ll just see where it was printed,” she said to herself, drawing out the book and backing off hastily—­so hastily that she came into collision with the sawhorse table, and the paste splashed out of the bucket.