uplifted.

"My daughter designs bookbindings," said Mr. Haim. "Happens to be very
busy to-night on something urgent."

He advanced towards her, George following.

"Awfully good!" George murmured enthusiastically, and quite sincerely,
though he was not at all in a condition to judge the design. Strange,
that he should come to the basement of an ordinary stock-size house in
Alexandra Grove to see bookbindings in the making! This was a design for
a boy's book. He had possessed many such books. But it had never
occurred to him that the gay bindings of them were each the result of
individual human thought and labour. He pulled at his cigarette.

There was a sound of pushing and rattling outside.

"What's that?" exclaimed Mr. Haim.

"It's the area door. I bolted it. I dare say it's Mrs. Lobley," said the
girl indifferently.

Mr. Haim moved sharply.

"Why did you bolt it, Marguerite? No, I'll go myself."

He picked up the lamp, which he had put down, and shuffled quickly out
in his red morocco slippers, closing the door.

Marguerite? Yes, it suited her; and it was among the most romantic of