It wasn't really his money that she wanted. It would be worth while doing it for nothing, for the sake of knowing him. She had read his _Euripides_. She wondered: Supposing he kept her, how long would it last? He was in the middle of his First Series of _Studies in Greek Literature_; and there would be two, or even three if he went on. He had taken Greffington Hall for four months. When he went back to London he would have to have somebody else. Perhaps he would tell her that, after thinking it over, he had found he didn't want her. Then to-day would be the end of it. If she looked up she would see him. She knew what she would see: the fine, cross upper lip lifted backwards by the moustache, the small grizzled brown moustache, turned up, that made it look crosser. The narrow, pensive lower lip, thrust out by its light jaw. His nose--quite a young nose--that wouldn't be Roman, wouldn't be Sutcliffe; it looked out over your head, tilted itself up to sniff the world, obstinate, alert. His eyes, young too, bright and dark, sheltered, safe from age under the low straight eyebrows. They would never have shabby, wrinkled sagging lids. Dark brown hair, grey above his ears, clipped close to stop its curling like his uncle's. He liked to go clipped and clean. You felt that he liked his own tall, straight slenderness. The big library rustled with the quick, irritable sound of his writing. It stopped. He had finished. He looked at the clock. She heard a small, commiserating sound. "Forgive me. I really thought it would only take five minutes. How on earth do you manage to keep so quiet? I should have known if a mouse had moved." He turned towards her. He leaned back in his chair. "You don't mind my smoking?" He was settling himself. Now she would know. "Well," he said, "if I did keep you waiting forty minutes, it was a good test, wasn't it?" He meditated. "I'm always changing my secretaries because of something. The last one was admirable, but I couldn't have stood her in the room when I was writing.... Besides, you work better." "Can you tell? In a week?" "Yes. I can tell.... Are you sure you can spare me four months?" "Easily." "Five? Six?" "If you were still here." "I shan't be. I shall be in London.... Couldn't you come up?" "I couldn't, possibly." His cross mouth and brilliant, irritated eyes questioned her. "I couldn't leave my mother." II. Five weeks of the four months gone. And to-morrow he was going up to London. Only till Friday. Only for five days. She kept on telling herself he would stay longer. Once he was there you couldn't tell how many days he might stay. But say he didn't come back till the middle of July, still there would be the rest of July and all August and September.