We moralised generally, after the way of humans, who desire to postpone a moment of anguished speech. She made the tour of my book-shelves. Many of the books she had borrowed, and she recognised them as old friends.
“Is that where Benvenuto Cellini has always lived?”
“Yes,” said I, running my hand along the row. “He is in his century, among his companions. He would be unhappy anywhere else.”
“And the History—how far has it gone?”
I showed her the pile of finished manuscript, of which she glanced at a few pages. She put it down hurriedly and turned away.
“I can’t see to read, just now, Marcus.”
Then she paused in front of her own photograph, the only one now on the mantel-piece.
“Will you give me that back?”
“Why should I?” I asked.
“I would rather—I should not like you to burn it.”