I'd infinitely rather break stones than
clean out poultry runs, or feed the cows, or--"
Here Rachel came up from the lower garden with a book in her hand.
"What's that book?" said Ridley, when she had shaken hands.
"It's Gibbon," said Rachel as she sat down.
"_The_ _Decline_ _and_ _Fall_ _of_ _the_ _Roman_ _Empire_?" said Mrs.
Thornbury. "A very wonderful book, I know. My dear father was always
quoting it at us, with the result that we resolved never to read a
line."
"Gibbon the historian?" enquired Mrs. Flushing. "I connect him with
some of the happiest hours of my life. We used to lie in bed and read
Gibbon--about the massacres of the Christians, I remember--when we were
supposed to be asleep. It's no joke, I can tell you, readin' a great
big book, in double columns, by a night-light, and the light that comes
through a chink in the door. Then there were the moths--tiger moths,
yellow moths, and horrid cockchafers. Louisa, my sister, would have the
window open. I wanted it shut. We fought every night of our lives over
that window. Have you ever seen a moth dyin' in a night-light?" she
enquired.
Again there was an interruption. Hewet and Hirst appeared at the
drawing-room window and came up to the tea-table.
Rachel's heart beat hard. She was conscious of an extraordinary
intensity in everything, as though their presence stripped some
cover off the surface of things; but the greetings were remarkably
commonplace.
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