“What I have done covers the first five sections up to F.”

“I see,” he said with a faint interest, “you are keeping the classical and modern sections distinct.”

“Yes, I thought that was better.”

“Much better.”

“I haven’t begun the classical section yet.  Can I leave that to you?”

“Certainly.”  He felt that every assent was committing him to he knew not what.

“You see a great deal of the work is done already.  That makes a difference, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, yes; it makes all the difference.”  And indeed it did.

“In this case you can undertake it?”

“No.  I think that in this case I couldn’t undertake it at all.”

“But—­why not?” she asked, as well she might.

Why not, indeed?  He walked two or three paces from her, trying to think it out.  If only his head didn’t ache so abominably!  To refuse to share the work with her was of course to lay himself open to a most disgusting suspicion.

He paced back again.  Did she suspect him of mercenary motives?  No; she suspected nothing.  Her face expressed disappointment and bewilderment, so far as she allowed it to express anything.  One more turn.  Thank Goodness, she was not looking at him; she was giving him time.  Only a second, though.  She had seated herself, as much as to say she was now waiting for an explanation.  He mustn’t keep her waiting; he must say something, but what on earth was he going to say?

And as he looked at the lady so serenely seated, there rose up before him a sudden impertinent, incongruous vision of Miss Poppy Grace’s legs.  They reminded him that certain affairs of his own imperatively called him back to town.  Happy thought—­why not say so?

“I ought to have said that in any case I couldn’t undertake it.  I couldn’t make time without giving up some very important engagements.”

“Could you not have thought of that before you came?”

“I did think of it.  I thought I could fit everything in by going up to town from Saturday to Monday.  But if I’m to finish by the twenty-seventh, even—­even with your help, I oughtn’t to lose a day, much less three days.”

“I see.  You are afraid of not being able to finish?”

He wavered, selecting some form of expression that might shadow forth what was passing in his mind.

“I’m afraid of making any promises I mightn’t be able to keep.”

Man’s vacillation is Fate’s determination, and Miss Harden was as firm as Fate.  He felt that the fine long hands playing with the catalogue were shaping events for him, while her eyes measured him with their meditative gaze.

“I must risk that,” she said.  “I should lose more than three days in finding a substitute, and I think you will do the work as I want it done.”

“And supposing I can’t do it in time?”

“Will you do your best—­that’s all?”

“Certainly; whatever I do, I shall do my best.  And if I fail you—­”