‘I don’t mind—if it’s anything worth hearing.’
‘Well, I’ll read you a bit of the book I was reading when you came in.’
‘What! that musty old book! No, thank you. It’s enough to give one the horrors—the very sight of it is enough. How can you like such frumpy old things?’
‘Oh! you mustn’t mind the look of it,’ I said. ‘It’s very nice inside!’
‘I know where there is a nice one,’ she returned. ‘Give me the candle.’
I followed her to another of the rooms, where she searched for some time. At length—‘There it is!’ she said, and put into my hand The Castle of Otranto. The name promised well. She next led the way to a lovely little bay window, forming almost a closet, which looked out upon the park, whence, without seeing the moon, we could see her light on the landscape, and the great deep shadows cast over the park from the towers of the Hall. There we sat on the broad window-sill, and I began to read. It was delightful. Does it indicate loss of power, that the grown man cannot enjoy the book in which the boy delighted? Or is it that the realities of the book, as perceived by his keener eyes, refuse to blend with what imagination would supply if it might?
No sooner however did the first notes of the distant violins enter the ear of my companion than she started to her feet.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, looking up from the book.
‘Don’t you hear the music?’ she said, half-indignantly.
‘I hear it now,’ I answered; ‘but why—?’