At last he found a moment and approached her.
"I wanted to give you those things before I go."
"Very well. We'll go into the house in one minute."
He waited. She made a sign that said, "Come," and he followed her. She
avoided the morning-room that looked on the courtyard with its throng
of callers; hesitated, and opened the door into the library. He ran
upstairs to fetch the manuscript, and joined her there. But for the
empty bookshelves this room, too, was as he had left it.
Lucia was sitting in a window seat. He came to her and gave the poems
into her open hands, and she thanked him.
"Nonsense. It's good of you to take them. But that doesn't release you
from your obligations."
She laid the manuscript on the window-seat, protected by her hand. He
sat there facing her, and for a moment neither spoke.
"I haven't very much time," he said at last. "I've got to catch the
seven-forty."
"You haven't. We don't want you to go like this. Now you're here you
must stay a fortnight at the very least."
He hung his head. He did not want her to see how immense was the
temptation. He murmured some half-audible, agitated thanks, but his
refusal was made quite plain. He could not give up the advantage he
had counted on. "I'm afraid I must bore you again a little now. I've
only got an hour."
"Don't spoil it, then. See how beautiful it is."
She rose and threw open the lattice, and they stood together for a
moment looking out.
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