"Not at all," said Celia. "I'm afraid I've been of very little help to

you; and I don't see that I can do any more----"

"No, no," he said, quickly; "don't take any more trouble. It wouldn't

matter so much if I had plenty of time; but I haven't. You see"--he

coloured--"one doesn't get too well paid for this kind of work, and

can't afford----"

He coloured still more deeply, and his voice dropped below the

regulation whisper in which one is permitted to speak in the Reading

Room. Celia glanced at him, and saw that he was poorly dressed, that his

shirt-cuffs were frayed, and that he had the peculiar look which is

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stamped on the countenances of so many of the frequenters of the Reading

Room.

"Just tell me what you would do if you were in my fix," he said.

Celia hesitated for a moment, then a smile broke over her face which

transfigured it and made it seem to the young fellow absolutely lovely.

"I should invent histories for them," she said. "It would be so much

easier--and, perhaps, ever so much more interesting."

"Oh, that's stunning!" he exclaimed, in a whisper. "Of course, that's

the way. I say, what a brick you are! Would you mind telling me your

name?"

"Grant--Celia Grant," she told him, without hesitation.

"Mine's Rex--Reggie Rex," he said. "I've often noticed you and wondered

what kind of work you did--But I beg your pardon; I mustn't disturb you

any longer."

They both fell to work, and Celia heard his fountain-pen racing over the

paper; once or twice he chuckled, as if he were enjoying a joke; but

very soon Celia forgot him; and when, at last, she looked up from her

work, she found his place empty; but on going out for her lunch she saw

him standing by one of the pillars of the portico. He blushed at sight

of her, moved forward, hesitated, then approached her.

"You're going to an A.B.C. for your lunch?" he said, with a mixture of a

man's timidity and a boy's audacity. "May I--will you let me come with

you? I feel as if I hadn't thanked you enough; I couldn't do it in that

stuffy old hole, where you can't speak above your breath."

He took Celia's silence for consent, and they went together to the big

shop in Oxford Street, and seated themselves at a table. They both

ordered a cup of tea and a roll and butter; Celia would have liked to

have added the omnipotent bun, but refrained; for, somehow, she knew

that he could not afford one.




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