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These books upon his shelves were not those that had taken him out of Paris—that he had taken out of Paris when he had gone into the country. He kept those hidden away in a cupboard. It was not fit that they should lie to hand and be read by his daughters, though that danger was not great since they were most of them written in French. Still, they were better hidden—perhaps better burned. A voice lifted itself out of his memories and he saw the Abbé's face, aglow with exhortation, while the candle-light shone upon the jewelled ring he wore—Gervase could remember now how he had turned and turned his hand, staring at it while he spoke . . . folk said it was a favour granted him by Madame le Thisay with other favours . . . but his voice had been the voice of the Church, rebuking, warning. . . .

Well, no good had come of taking his warning. Here he was, his life all behind him and nothing done—nothing but his books left . . . his books and his daughters. His daughters would marry and go from him, only his books would be there to remind him with dim colours and musty smells of ardours that were cold, and dreams that had fallen into dust.