"Do you read much, Mr. Webb?"

The reiteration of the prefix to his name awakened him to the marvelous
fact that for the present he was no longer the machine; she was
recognizing the man.

"Perhaps, for a man in my station, I read too much, Miss Killigrew."

Kitty's scarlet lips stirred ever so slightly. It was the first time
he had added the name to the prefix: he in his turn was recognizing the
woman. And this rather pleased her, for she liked to be recognized.

"May I ask what it is you are reading?"

He offered the book to her. _Morte d'Arthur_. Kitty's eyebrows, a
hundred years or more ago, would have stirred to tender lyrics the
quills of Prior and Lovelace and Suckling: arched when interested, a
funny little twist to the inner points when angered, and when laughter
possessed her. . . . Let Thomas indite the sonnet! Just now they were
widely arched.

"I am very fond of the book," explained Thomas diffidently. "I love
the pompous gallantry of these fairy chaps. How politely they used to
hack each other into pieces!"

"Are you by chance a university man?"

"No. I am self-educated, if one may call it that. My father was a
fellow at Trinity. For myself, I have always had to work."