cares for music; I believes she writes poetry; and there can be no doubt that she has a peculiar charm———”
She ceased, as if defining to herself this peculiar charm. After a moment’s silence William jerked out,
“I thought her affectionate?”
“Extremely affectionate. She worships Henry. When you think what a house that is—Uncle Francis always in one mood or another———”
“Dear, dear, dear,’ William muttered.
“And you have so much in common.”
“My dear Katharine!” William exclaimed, flinging himself back in his chair, and uprooting his eyes from the spot in the fire. “I really don’t know what we’re talking about . . . I assure you. . .”
He was covered with an extreme confusion.
He withdrew the finger that was still thrust between the pages of Gulliver, opened the book, and ran his eye down the list of chapters, as though he were about to select the one most suitable for reading aloud. As Katharine watched him, she was seized with preliminary symptoms of his own panic. At the same time she was convinced that, should he find the right page, take out his spectacles, clear his throat, and open his lips, a chance that would never come again in all their lives would be lost to them both.
“We're talking about things that interest us both very much,” she said. “Shan’t we go on talking, and leave Swift for another time? I don’t feel in the mood for Swift, and it’s a pity to read any one when that’s the case—particularly Swift.”
The pretence of wise literary speculation, as she calculated, restored William’s confidence in his security, and he replaced the book in the bookcase, keeping his back turned to her as he did so, and taking advantage of this circumstance to summon his thoughts together.
But a second of introspection had the alarming result
