old vault; but need it be? That's the point. And it's my putting the
question to my cousin that seems to have been the cause of the trouble."
His glance explored the melancholy penumbra of the long narrow room,
resting on the blotched walls, the discoloured rows of books, and the
stern rosewood desk surmounted by the portrait of the young Honorius.
"Of course it's a bad job to do anything with a building jammed against
a hill like this ridiculous mausoleum: you couldn't get a good draught
through it without blowing a hole in the mountain. But it can be
ventilated after a fashion, and the sun can be let in: I'll show you
how if you like...." The architect's passion for improvement had
already made him lose sight of her grievance, and he lifted his stick
instructively toward the cornice. But her silence seemed to tell him
that she took no interest in the ventilation of the library, and turning
back to her abruptly he held out both hands. "Look here--you don't mean
what you said? You don't really think I'd do anything to hurt you?"

A new note in his voice disarmed her: no one had ever spoken to her in
that tone.

"Oh, what DID you do it for then?" she wailed. He had her hands in
his, and she was feeling the smooth touch that she had imagined the day
before on the hillside.

He pressed her hands lightly and let them go. "Why, to make things
pleasanter for you here; and better for the books. I'm sorry if my
cousin twisted around what I said. She's excitable, and she lives on
trifles: I ought to have remembered that. Don't punish me by letting her
think you take her seriously."

It was wonderful to hear him speak of Miss Hatchard as if she were a