Jean dried her eyes and went on with her darning, and Pamela walked
about looking at the books and talking, taking in every detail of this
girl and her so individual room, the golden-brown hair, thick and wavy,
the golden-brown eyes, "like a trout-stream in Connemara," that sparkled
and lit and saddened as she talked, the mobile, humorous mouth, the
short, straight nose and pointed chin, the straight-up-and-down belted
brown frock, the whole toning so perfectly with the room with its
polished floor and old Persian rugs, the pale yellow walls (even on the
dullest day they seemed to hold some sunshine) hung with coloured prints
in old rosewood frames--"Saturday Morning," engraved (with many
flourishes) by T. Burke, engraver to His Serene Highness the Reigning
Landgrave of Hesse Darmstadt; "The Cut Finger," by David Wilkie--those
and many others. The furniture was old and good, well kept and well
polished, so that the shabby, friendly room had that comfortable air of
well-being that only careful housekeeping can give. Books were
everywhere: a few precious ones behind glass doors, hundreds in low
bookcases round the room.

"I needn't ask you if you are fond of reading," Pamela said.

"Much too fond," Jean confessed. "I'm a 'rake at reading.'"

"You know the people," said Pamela, "who say, 'Of course I _love_
reading, but I've no time, alas!' as if everyone who loves reading
doesn't make time."

As they talked, Pamela realised that this girl who lived year in and
year out in a small country town was in no way provincial, for all her
life she had been free of the company of the immortals. The Elizabethans