in a
condition to be left--and the months had passed very quickly. But her
lack of occupation and her knowledge of shorthand, and George Cannon's
obvious need of clerical aid, had made it inevitable that they should
resume their former roles of principal and clerk. Hilda worked daily at
letters, circularizing, advertisements, and--to a less extent--accounts
and bills; the second finger of her right hand had nearly always an
agreeable stain of ink at the base of the nail; and she often dreamed
about letter-filing. In this prosperous month of August she had, on the
whole, less work than usual, for both circulating and advertisements
were stopped.

George Cannon went to the desk in the dark corner between the window and
the door, where all business papers were kept, but where neither he nor
she actually wrote. When his back was turned she surreptitiously glanced
at him without moving her head, and perceived that his hand was only
moving idly about among the papers while he stared at the wall. She
thought, half in alarm: "What is the matter now?" Then he came over to
the table and hesitated by her shoulder. Still, she would not look up.
She could no longer decipher a single word on the page. Her being was
somehow monopolized by the consciousness of his nearness.

"Interesting?" he inquired.

She turned her head at last and glanced at him with a friendly smile of
affirmation, fingering the leaves of the book nervously. It was
Cranswick's _History of Printing_. One day, a fortnight earlier, while
George Cannon, in company with her, was bargaining for an old London
Directory outside a bookseller's shop in East Street, she had seen
Cranswick's _History of Printing_ (labelled "published at _L1_ 1s., our
price 6s. 6d.") and had opened it curiously. George Cannon, who always
kept an eye on her, had said teasingly: "I suppose it's your
journalistic past that makes you interested in that?" "I suppose it is,"
she answered. Which statement was an untruth, for the sole thought in
her mind had been that Edwin Clayhanger was a printer. A strange, idle
thought! She had laid the book down. The next day, however, George
Cannon had brought it home, saying carelessly: "I bought that book--five
and six; the man seemed anxious to do business, and it's a book to
have." He had not touched it since.

"Page 473!" he murmured, looking at the number of the page. "If you keep
on at this rate, you'll soon know more about printing than young
Clayha