’The library should be open, I think, from ten to ten, for I want to lose no possibility of usefulness.  If one loafer be tempted to come in and read, the day’s object is gained.  These hours are, of course, too long for you alone; I would provide you with an assistant, so that you could assure for yourself, let us say, four hours free out of the twelve.  But details would be easily arranged between us.  By-the-by, Sunday must not be a day of closing; to make it so would be to deprive ourselves of the greatest opportunity.  Your freedom for one entire day in the week should be guaranteed.

’I offer this because I should like to have you working with me, and because I believe that such work would be more to your taste than that in which you are now occupied.  It would, moreover, leave you a good deal of time for study; we are not likely to be overwhelmed with readers and borrowers during the daytime.  But you will consider the proposal precisely as you would do if it came from a stranger, and will accept or reject it as you see fit.

’I leave town to-day for about a week.  Will you write to me at the end of that time?—­Always yours, my dear Grail,

‘WALTER EGREMONT.’

Mrs. Grail showed no curiosity about the letter; the subject of the interrupted conversation held her musing.  When Gilbert had folded the sheets, and, in the manner of one who receives few letters, returned it to its envelope, he said: 

‘Yes, it’s about the library.  He’s taken the house for seven years.’

His mother murmured an expression of interest.  For another minute the clock on the mantel-piece ticked loud; then Gilbert rose, and without saying anything, went out.

He entered his bedroom.  The darkness was complete, but he moved with the certainty of habit to a chair by the head of the bed, and there seated himself.  Presently he felt a painful surging in his throat, then a gush of warm tears forced its way to his eyes.  It cost him a great effort to resist the tendency to sob aloud.  He was hot and cold alternately, and trembled as though a fever were coming upon him.

In a quarter of an hour he lit the candle, and, after a glance at himself in the glass, bathed his face.  Then he took down his overcoat from the door, and put it on.  His hat, too, he took, and went to the parlour.

‘I have to go out, mother,’ he said, standing at the door.  ’I’ll be back by supper-time.’

‘Very well, my dear,’ was the quiet reply.

He walked out to the edge of the pavement, and stood a moment, as if in doubt as to his direction.  Then he looked at the upper windows of the house, as we saw him do one night half a year ago.  There was a light this time in the sisters’ room.

He turned towards Lambeth Walk.  The market of Christmas Eve was flaring and clamorous; the odours of burning naphtha and fried fish were pungent on the wind.  He walked a short distance among the crowd, then found the noise oppressive and turned into a by-way.  As he did so, a street organ began to play in front of a public-house close by.  Grail drew near; there were children forming a dance, and he stood to watch them.