His melancholy eyes drooped over her, and filled her with a determination to be nothing but practical. She thought of Kate Duveen. “It’s my work, and I’m used to it.” “The place kills me.” “I don’t mind it at all. I think most of us need a certain amount of work to do that we don’t like doing, because, if we can always do what we like, we end by doing nothing.” He blinked at her. “Now, I never expected to hear you say that. It is so very British.” “I make a living in England!” and she laughed. “Will you tell me exactly what you want me to do?” Massinger gathered himself up from the lounge, went to the oak cupboard, and brought out a manuscript book covered with black velvet, and with the inevitable sunflower embroidered on it. “I had better give you a list of the books I want you to dip into.” Eve took a notebook and a pencil from her bag, and for the next ten minutes she was kept busy scribbling down ancient and unfamiliar titles. Many of them smelt of Caxton, and Wynkyn de Worde, and of the Elizabethans. There were books on hunting, armour, dress, domestic architecture, painted glass, ivories and enamels; also herbals, chap-books, monastic chronicles, Exchequer rolls and copies of charters. Hugh Massinger might be an æsthetic ass, but he seemed to be a somewhat learned one. “I think you will map out the days as follows: In the morning I will ask you to go to the Museum and make notes and drawings. In the afternoon you can submit them to me here, and I will select what I require, and advise you as to what to hunt up next day. I suppose you won’t mind answering some of my letters?” “Miss Champion said that I was to act as your secretary.” “Blessed word! I am pestered with letters. They tried to get me to manage several of those silly pageants. They don’t understand the Middle Ages, these moderns.” She wanted to keep to practical things. “What time shall I go to the Museum?” He stared. “I never worry about time—when you like.” “And how long will you want me here?” “I never work after five o’clock, except, of course, when I feel creative.” She stood up, putting her notebook back into her bag. “Then, shall I start to-morrow?” “If it pleases you.” “Of course.” He accompanied her to the door, and opened it for her, looking with half furtive intentness into her face. “I think we shall get on very well together, Miss Carfax.” “I hope so.” She went out with a vague feeling of contempt and distaste. Within a week Eve discovered that she was growing interested in her new work, and also interested, in a negative fashion, in Hugh Massinger. He was a rather baffling person, impressing her as a possible genius and as a palpable fool. She usually found him curled up on the lounge, smoking a hookah, and looking like an Oriental, sinister and sleepy. For some reason or other, his smile made her think of a brass plate that had not been properly cleaned, and was smeary. Once or twice the suspicion occurred to her that he took drugs.