“I say, Ricky, what did you do it for?”

But that was more than Rickman could explain, even to Maddox.

They had all contended which should receive him when he came out of hospital; but it was settled that for the present he should remain with Maddox in his rooms.  There Dicky, absolutely prepared to do the handsome thing, called upon him at an early date.  Dicky had promised himself some exquisite sensations in the moment of magnanimity; but the moment never came.  Rickman remained firm in his determination that every shilling of the debt should be paid and paid by him; it was more than covered by the money Maddox advanced for his literary remains.  Dicky had to own that the plucky little fellow had won his game, but he added, “You couldn’t have done it, Razors, if I hadn’t given you points.”

The great thing was that he had done it, and that the Harden library was his, was Lucia’s.  It only remained to tell her, and to hand it over to her.  He had long ago provided for this difficult affair.  He wrote, as he had planned to write, with a judicious hardness, brevity and restraint.  He told her that he desired to see her on some business connected with the Harden library, in which he was endeavouring to carry out as far as possible his father’s last wishes.  He asked to be allowed to call on her some afternoon in the following week.  He thanked her for her letter without further reference, and he remained—­“sincerely”?  No, “faithfully” hers.

He told Maddox that he thought of going down to Devonshire to recruit.

CHAPTER LXXIV

Lucia was suffering from the disagreeable strain of a divided mind.  To begin with she was not altogether pleased with Mr. Rickman.  He had taken no notice of the friendly little letter she had written about the Elegy, her evident intention being to give him pleasure.  She had written it on impulse, carried away by her ardent admiration.  That was another of those passionate indiscreet things, which were followed by torments of her pride.  And the torments had followed.  His two months’ silence had reproved her ardour, had intimated to her that he was in no mood to enter in at the door which she had closed to him three years ago.  She took it that he had regarded her poor little olive branch as an audacity.  And now that he had written there was not a word about the subject of her letter.  He had only written because business compelled him, and his tone was not only cold, but positively austere.

But, she reflected, business after all did not compel him to come down and see her.  Having reached this point she became aware that her heart was beating most uncomfortably at the bare idea of seeing him.  For the first time this anticipation inspired her with anxiety and fear.  Until their last meeting in Tavistock Place there had been in all their intercourse something intangible and rare, something that, though