Neither of the ladies came to me the next morning. As far as my work was concerned, I was in considerably less need of their assistance, for it lay only between two rooms opening into each other. Nor did I feel any great disappointment, for so long as a man has something to do, expectation is pleasure enough, and will continue such for a long time. It is those who are unemployed to whom expectation becomes an agony. I went home to my solitary dinner almost resolved to return to my original plan of going only in the afternoons. I was not thoroughly in love with Clara; but it was certainly the hope of seeing her, and not the pleasure of handling the dusty books, that drew me back to the library that afternoon. I had got rather tired of the whole affair in the morning. It was very hot, and the dust was choking, and of the volumes I opened as they passed through my hands, not one was of the slightest interest to me. But for the chance of seeing Clara I should have lain in the grass instead. No one came. I grew weary, and for a change retreated into the armoury. Evidently, not the slightest heed was paid to the weapons now, and I was thinking with myself that, when I had got the books in order, I might give a few days to furbishing and oiling them, when the door from the gallery opened, and Clara entered. ‘What! a truant?’ she said. ‘You take accusation at least by the forelock, Clara. Who is the real truant now--if I may suggest a mistake?’ ‘_I_ never undertook anything. How many guesses have you made as to the cause of your desertion to-day?’ ‘Well, three or four.’ ‘Have you made one as to the cause of Miss Brotherton’s graciousness to you yesterday?’ ‘At least I remarked the change.’ ‘I will tell you. There was a short notice of some of your writings in a certain magazine which I contrived should fall in her way.’ ‘Impossible!’ I exclaimed. ‘I have never put my name to anything.’ ‘But you have put the same name to all your contributions.’ ‘How should the reviewer know it meant me?’ ‘Your own name was never mentioned.’ I thought she looked a little confused as she said this. ‘Then how should Miss Brotherton know it meant me?’ She hesitated a moment--then answered: ‘Perhaps from internal evidence.--I suppose I must confess I told her.’ ‘Then how did _you_ know? ‘I have been one of your readers for a long time.’ ‘But how did you come to know my work?’ ‘That has oozed out.’ ‘Some one must have told you,’ I said. ‘That is my secret,’ she replied, with the air of making it a mystery in order to tease me. ‘It must be all a mistake,’ I said. ‘Show me the magazine.’ ‘As you won’t take my word for it, I won’t.’ ‘Well, I shall soon find out. There is but one could have done it. It is very kind of him, no doubt; but I don’t like it. That kind of thing should come of itself--not through friends.’ ‘Who do you fancy has done it?’ ‘If you have a secret, so have I.’