his books and the large table, with its
spread of white papers, now illumined by a green reading-lamp. Here Mr.
Hilbery sat editing his review, or placing together documents by means
of which it could be proved that Shelley had written "of" instead of
"and," or that the inn in which Byron had slept was called the "Nag's
Head" and not the "Turkish Knight," or that the Christian name of
Keats's uncle had been John rather than Richard, for he knew more minute
details about these poets than any man in England, probably, and was
preparing an edition of Shelley which scrupulously observed the poet's
system of punctuation. He saw the humor of these researches, but that
did not prevent him from carrying them out with the utmost scrupulosity.

He was lying back comfortably in a deep arm-chair smoking a cigar, and
ruminating the fruitful question as to whether Coleridge had wished to
marry Dorothy Wordsworth, and what, if he had done so, would have been
the consequences to him in particular, and to literature in general.
When Katharine came in he reflected that he knew what she had come for,
and he made a pencil note before he spoke to her. Having done this, he
saw that she was reading, and he watched her for a moment without saying
anything. She was reading "Isabella and the Pot of Basil," and her mind
was full of the Italian hills and the blue daylight, and the hedges set
with little rosettes of red and white roses. Feeling that her father
waited for her, she sighed and said, shutting her book:

"I've had a letter from Aunt Celia about Cyril, father.... It seems to
be true--about his marriage. What are we to do?"

"Cyril seems to have been behaving in a very foolish manner," said Mr.
Hilbery, in his pleasant and deliberate tones.

Katharine found some difficulty in carrying on the conversation, while
her father balanced his finger-tips so judiciously, and seemed to
reserve so many of his thoughts for himself.

"He's about done for himself, I should say," he continued. Without
saying anything, he took Katharine's letters out of her hand, adjusted
his eyeglasses, and read them through.

At length he said "Humph!" and gave the letters back to her.

"Mother knows nothing about it," Katharine remarked. "Will you tell
her?"

"I shall tell your mother. But I shall tell her that there is nothing
whatever for us to do."

"But the marriage?" Katharine asked, with some diffidence.

Mr. Hilbery said nothing, and stared into the