of a young girl of distinguished upbringing appealed to
William, and suggested a thousand ways in which, with his training and
accomplishments, he could be of service to her. She ought to be given
the chance of hearing good music, as it is played by those who have
inherited the great tradition. Moreover, from one or two remarks let
fall in the course of conversation, he thought it possible that she
had what Katharine professed to lack, a passionate, if untaught,
appreciation of literature. He had lent her his play. Meanwhile, as
Katharine was certain to be late, and "The Magic Flute" is nothing
without a voice, he felt inclined to spend the time of waiting in
writing a letter to Cassandra, exhorting her to read Pope in preference
to Dostoevsky, until her feeling for form was more highly developed. He
set himself down to compose this piece of advice in a shape which was
light and playful, and yet did no injury to a cause which he had near
at heart, when he heard Katharine upon the stairs. A moment later it was
plain that he had been mistaken, it was not Katharine; but he could not
settle himself to his letter. His temper had changed from one of urbane
contentment--indeed of delicious expansion--to one of uneasiness and
expectation. The dinner was brought in, and had to be set by the fire to
keep hot. It was now a quarter of an hour beyond the specified time. He
bethought him of a piece of news which had depressed him in the earlier
part of the day. Owing to the illness of one of his fellow-clerks, it
was likely that he would get no holiday until later in the year, which
would mean the postponement of their marriage. But this possibility,
after all, was not so disagreeable as the probability which forced
itself upon him with every tick of the clock that Katharine had
completely forgotten her engagement. Such things had happened less
frequently since Christmas, but what if they were going to begin to
happen again? What if their marriage should turn out, as she had said, a
farce? He acquitted her of any wish to hurt him wantonly, but there
was something in her character which made it impossible for her to help
hurting people. Was she cold? Was she self-absorbed? He tried to fit her
with each of these descriptions, but he had to own that she puzzled him.

"There are so many things that she doesn't understand," he reflected,
glancing at the letter to Cassandra which he had begun and laid aside.
What prevented him from finishin