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'Why shouldn't I be ... simply enchanted, to see an old friend?' She spoke softly. 'Not every evening.... It's a long time....'

His mind refused to hope, to consider implications, overpowering, impossible and rapt. He was not annoyed by the word 'friend.' It was enough to be here. Without touching them he indicated the books.

'You still read a great deal.' His tone strove to flit to a lightness belying his pity, the feeling in his familiar recognition which had brought the tears to his eyes when he met her. 'Still,' he had said. And 'not every evening' did he come.

He had long since for all his freedom in thought, his assent to her ideals, looked with uneasiness upon her unremitting, her almost possessed reading. That feeling was beyond his rationalizing. He had been able to object only interferingly, as he felt powerless. What were books to her? Anodyne, perhaps, and they had to be of increasing potency. She paid little heed to him. What was she to do? She had been too wise to put it so, knowing what his answer would be. He felt absurd to cavil, though he did not like some of the things she read.... In his remark was contained a whole cycle of reminiscence, of familiarity which now seemed impossible.