discourtesy, passing on with cup unspilled. Nothing but music reached her ears, everything she saw melted into a background of garden sunlight. She was out of sight, drying her hands, lighting up the corner of the room where the towels hung.... If Mr. Shatov were on _her_ hands, she would not be regretting that the afternoon could hold no solitary wanderings. She made no calculations; for she could not be robbed. That was strength. She was gone. Miriam finished her operations as though she remained, drying her hands unhurriedly, standing where she had stood, trying to survey the unforetellable afternoon with something of her sustained tranquillity. He would probably be plunging up and down the corridor with a growing impatience..... There he was, unconcernedly waiting; his singing determined child’s head reared hatless above the dreadful overcoat, the clear light of the corridor upon its modest thought-moulded dignity ... distinguished .... that was what he was. She felt unworthy, helplessly inadequate, coming up the corridor to claim him. She was amongst the people passing about him before he saw her; and she caught again the look of profound reproachful brooding melancholy seated in his eyes, so strangely contradicting his whole happy look of a child standing at a party, gazing, everything pouring into its wide eyes; dancing and singing within itself, unconscious of its motionless body. “Here we are,” she said avertedly as he came eagerly forward. “Let us quickly to this official” he urged in his indoor voice. “All right; this way.” He hurried along at her side, beard forward, his yellow boots plunging in long rapid strides beneath his voluminously floating overcoat. She resented the librarian’s official manner; the appearance of the visitor, the little card he promptly produced, should have been enough. Stud. Schtu_dent_, how much more expressive than _stew_dent .... to be able to go about the world for years, so-and-so, stud ..... all doors open and committed to nothing. She asserted herself by making suggestions in French. Mr. Shatov responded politely, also in French, and she felt the absurdity of her eager interference, holding him a prisoner, hiding his studious command of English, in order to flourish forth her knowledge. “We are not afraid even of Russian, if Mr. Shatov prefers to use his own tongue,” said the librarian. Miriam flashed a suspicious glance. He was smiling a self-conscious superior English smile. It soured into embarrassment under her eye. “It is no matter” said Mr. Shatov gently, “you shall immediately say me the requisite formules which I shall at once write.” He stood beautiful, the gentle unconsciously reproachful prey of English people unable to resist their desire to be effective. They stood conquered, competing in silent appreciation, as he bent writing his way into their forgotten library.