"Books!"--she clasped her hands nervously, and her eyes grew brilliant--"Oh! If you can write books you must always be happy!" "Do you think so?" And he bent his brows and scrutinised her more intently. "What do YOU know about it? Are you fond of reading?" A deep blush suffused her fair skin. "Yes--but I have only read very old books for the most part," she said--"In the farm-house where I was brought up there were a great many manuscripts on vellum, and curious things--I read those--and some books in old French--" "Books in old French!" he echoed, wonderingly. "And you can read them? You are quite a French scholar, then?" "Oh no, indeed!" she protested--"I have only taught myself a little. Of course it was difficult at first,--but I soon managed it,--just as I learned how to read old English--I mean the English of Queen Elizabeth's time. I loved it all so much that it was a pleasure to puzzle it out. We had a few modern books--but I never cared for them." He studied her face with increasing interest. "And you are going to earn your own living in London!" he said--"Have you thought of a way to begin? In old French, or old English?" She glanced at him quickly and saw that he was smiling kindly. "Yes," she answered, gently--"I have thought of a way to begin! Will you tell me of some book you have written so that I may read it?" He shook his head. "Not I!" he declared--"I could not stand the criticism of a young lady who might compare me with the writers of the Elizabethan period--Shakespeare, for instance--" "Ah no!" she said--"No one can ever be compared with Shakespeare--that is impossible!"