Miss Allan had asked Rachel to come in out of kindness,
thinking that she was waiting about with nothing to do. Moreover, she
liked young women, for she had taught many of them, and having received
so much hospitality from the Ambroses she was glad to be able to repay
a minute part of it. She looked about accordingly for something to
show her. The room did not provide much entertainment. She touched
her manuscript. "Age of Chaucer; Age of Elizabeth; Age of Dryden,"
she reflected; "I'm glad there aren't many more ages. I'm still in the
middle of the eighteenth century. Won't you sit down, Miss Vinrace? The
chair, though small, is firm. . . . Euphues. The germ of the English
novel," she continued, glancing at another page. "Is that the kind of
thing that interests you?"
She looked at Rachel with great kindness and simplicity, as though
she would do her utmost to provide anything she wished to have. This
expression had a remarkable charm in a face otherwise much lined with
care and thought.
"Oh no, it's music with you, isn't it?" she continued, recollecting,
"and I generally find that they don't go together. Sometimes of course
we have prodigies--" She was looking about her for something and now saw
a jar on the mantelpiece which she reached down and gave to Rachel. "If
you put your finger into this jar you may be able to extract a piece of
preserved ginger.
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