The wonder, which grew with the morning, was not so much in the things she said as in the things she didn’t say.  Her powers of reservation seemed to Rickman little short of miraculous.  Until yesterday he had never met a woman who did not, by some look or tone or movement of her body, reveal what she was thinking about him.  Whatever Miss Harden thought about him she kept it to herself.  Unfortunately the same high degree of reticence was expected from him, and to Keith Rickman, when not restrained by excess of shyness, reticence came hard.  It was apt to break down when a severe strain was put on it, as had been the case that morning.  And it was appointed that the same thing should happen to him this afternoon.

As far as he could remember it happened in this way.  He was busy getting the Greek dramatists into their places, an enterprise which frequently took him to her end of the room where Sir Joseph had established his classical library.  He was sitting on the top of the steps, when she approached him carrying six vellum bound volumes in her arms, Sir Joseph’s edition of Euripides of which the notes exceeded the text.  He dismounted and took the books from her, turning very red as he did so.

“You should let me do all the carrying.  These books are too heavy for you.”

“Thank you, I think they ought to go with the others, on this shelf.”

He did not answer all at once.  He was absorbed in the Euripides.  It was an edition de luxe, the Greek text exquisitely printed from a fount of semi-uncial type, the special glory of the Harden Classics.

He exclaimed, “What magnificent type!”

She smiled.

“It’s rare too.  I’ve never seen any other specimen—­in modern printing.”

“There is no other specimen,” said she.

“Yes, there is.  One book at least, printed, I think, in Germany.”

“Is there?  It was set up from a new fount specially made for this edition.  I always supposed my grandfather invented it.”

“Oh no, he couldn’t have done that.  He may have adapted it.  In fact, he must have adapted it.”

This young man had set aside a cherished tradition, as lightly as if he were blowing the dust off the leaves.  She was interested.

“How can you tell that?”

“Oh, I know.  It’s very like a manuscript in the British Museum.”

“What manuscript?”

“The Greek text of the Complutensian Polyglot.” (He could not help saying to himself, ‘That ought to fetch her!’) “But it doesn’t follow that it’s the same type.  Whatever it is, it’s very beautiful.”

“It’s easier to read, too, than the ordinary kind.”

He was still turning over the pages, handling the book as a lover handles the thing he loves.  The very touch of the vellum thrilled him with an almost sensual rapture.  Here and there a line flashed from a chorus and lured him deeper into the text.  His impulse was still to exclaim, but a finer instinct taught him to suppress his scholarly emotion.  Looking up as she spoke he saw her eyes fixed on him with a curious sympathy.  And as he thought of the possible destiny of the Euripides he felt guilty as of a treachery towards her in loving the same book.