midating fellow, Hilda thrilled with pleasure at the piquancy of the
spectacle, and she was admiringly proud of Edwin. The foreman's immense
voice, explaining machines and tools, caused physical vibrations in her.
But she understood nothing of what he said--nothing whatever. She was in
a dream of oily odours and monstrous iron constructions, dominated by
the grand foreman: and Edwin was in the dream. She began talking quite
wildly of the four-hundredth anniversary of the inventor of printing, of
which she had read in Cranswick's History... at Brighton! Brighton had
sunk away over the verge of memory. Even Lane End House was lost
somewhere in the vague past. All her previous life had faded. She
reflected guiltily: "He's bound to think I've been reading about
printing because I was interested in _him_ I don't care! I hope he does
think it!" She heard a suggestion that, as it was too late that night to
see the largest machine in motion, she might call the next afternoon.
She at once promised to come.... She impatiently desired now to leave
the room where they were, and to see something else. And then she feared
lest this might be all there was to see.... Edwin Clayhanger was edging
towards the door.... They were alone on the stairway again.... The
foreman had bowed at the top like a chamberlain.... She gathered, with
delicious anticipation, that other and still more recondite interiors
awaited their visit.

IV

They were in an attic which was used for the storage of reams upon reams
of paper. By the light of a candle in a tin candlestick, they had passed
alone together through corridors and up flights of stairs at the back of
the shop. She had seen everything that was connected with the enterprise
of steam-printing, and now they were at the top of the old house and at
the end of the excursion.

"I used to work here," said Edwin Clayhanger.

She inquired about the work.

"Well," he drawled, "reading and writing, you know--at that very table."

In the aperture of the window, amid piles of paper, stood a rickety old
table, covered with dust.

"But there's no fireplace," she said, glancing round the room, and then
directly at him.

"I know."

"But how did you do in winter?" she eagerly appealed.

And he replied shortly, and with a slight charming affectation of pride:
"I did without."

Her throat tightened, and she could feel the tears suddenly swim in her
eyes. She was not touched by the vision of his hardship