She felt that she had blundered; but Mary Rolfe, like the majority of her sex, was a woman. “Why, isn’t it a Testament?” asked she, carelessly; “it has just the look of some of those little English editions.” And she held out her hand.
“Oh!” said the Don, looking relieved. “No, it is not a Testament.”
“What is it, then?” said she, her hand still extended.
“It is a copy of the Iliad; and my little confession is, that I have carried it in this pocket ever so many years.”
“Indeed!” cried Mary, much interested.
“So, you see, when you ask me to talk to you about Homer, you are getting yourself into trouble, most probably.”
“Let me have it.”
The Don smiled and shook his head.
“What!” cried she, with amazement, “I may not touch it?”
“Well, as a special favor, you may; but it must not go out of my possession. Here, you hold that lid and I this. No, this way,” added the Don, rising. He had been seated on her right; but now placing his chair to her left, he held out the little volume to her, holding the left lid, together with a few pages, between finger and thumb. What could be his object in changing his position? Was there something written on the flyleaf? She gave a quick glance at his face, but instantly checked herself and broke out into a merry laugh.