It was sometime after the household had retired, however, before Euphra made her appearance at the door of his study. She seemed rather shy of entering, and hesitated, as if she felt she was doing something she ought not to do. But as soon as she had entered, and the door was shut, she appeared to recover herself quite; and they sat down at the table with their books. They could not get on very well with their reading, however. Hugh often forgot what he was about, in looking at her; and she seemed nowise inclined to avert his gazes, or check the growth of his admiration. Rather abruptly, but apparently starting from some suggestion in the book, she said to him: “By the bye, has Mr. Arnold ever said anything to you about the family jewels?” “No,” said Hugh. “Are there many?” “Yes, a great many. Mr. Arnold is very proud of them, as well as of the portraits; so he treats them in the same way—keeps them locked up. Indeed he seldom allows them to see daylight, except it be as a mark of especial favour to some one.” “I should like much to see them. I have always been curious about stones. They are wonderful, mysterious things to me.” Euphra gave him a very peculiar, searching glance, as he spoke. “Shall I,” he continued, “give him a hint that I should like to see them?” “By no means,” answered Euphra, emphatically, “except he should refer to them himself. He is very jealous of his possessions—his family possessions, I mean. Poor old man! he has not much else to plume himself upon; has he?” “He is kind to you, Euphra.” She looked at him as if she did not understand him. “Yes. What then?” “You ought not to be unkind to him.” “You odd creature! I am not unkind to him. I like him. But we are not getting on with our reading. What could have led me to talk about family-jewels? Oh! I see. What a strange thing the association of ideas is! There is not a very obvious connexion here; is there?” “No. One cannot account for such things. The links in the chain of ideas are sometimes slender enough. Yet the slenderest is sufficient to enable the electric flash of thought to pass along the line.” She seemed pondering for a moment. “That strikes me as a fine simile,” she said. “You ought to be a poet yourself.” Hugh made no reply. “I daresay you have hundreds of poems in that old desk, now?” “I think they might be counted by tens.” “Do let me see them.” “You would not care for them.” “Wouldn’t I, Hugh?” “I will, on one condition—two conditions, I mean.” “What are they?” “One is, that you show me yours.”