Thoughts of burned hand, new-found friends, occupied him not. The crisp whisk of the leaves of his reference-books, the rapid whirr of his quill pen, the occasional bubble of his green-shaded reading-lamp, were the only signs of external life of which he was conscious. The rest of the bare-floored room, with its oddly covered walls, was deep in shadow. But the light shone in a circle upon the pile of books and papers on which he was engaged, and lit up strongly his honest, resolute face, with its intent gray eyes and its kindly mouth half hidden in the moustache and beard. Kent was happy. The darling work, that served him as mistress, religion, ambition--over which he had never known a heartache--held him in its enchantment. And the wet slips grew in number around him. CHAPTER VI. You are going to spend a dismal evening, my dear,” said Mrs. Farquharson, with a sigh. They were sitting on either side of the drawing-room fire, awaiting dinner guests. “Why?” asked Clytie. “Oh, the crowd that's coming--fossilised London, with figures like amphoras and faces like old coins. It's the principle of assimilation, I suppose. And they'll talk as if there were nothing new under the sun.” “There isn't much.” “Isn't there? Wait till you have lived a little longer. At any rate there are murders and divorces and new pictures and the latter end of the nineteenth century. Why people choose to live a couple of thousand years before their time I can't make out. You'll see. They'll all look as if they had been excavated--except George, and he looks as if they had never taken the trouble to bury him. Thank goodness, they have all got weak digestions and don't dine out much, or else we should have them here every week.” “But the wives are coming too,” said Clytie by way of consolation. “Poor things! They all look weary with many proof-sheets crammed with circumflexes over impossible letters, and wrong-headed pictures of birds and beasts. All archaeologists are not like George, you know.” “But then no one is like George.” “That's a mercy,” said Mrs. Farquharson settling herself with much comfort among the cushions of her chair. “Don't you get married, my dear; stay independent. Do you know, one of the beings is going to read a paper. Pity me.” “It seems as if I am to be pitied too,” remarked Clytie. “Ah! but you are young and can make fun out of them. I can't.”