“The last time I saw you,” said Mr. Scales, in a new tone, “you said you were never in the shop.”

“What?  Yesterday?  Did I?”

“No, I mean the last time I saw you alone,” said he.

“Oh!” she exclaimed.  “It’s just an accident.”

“That’s exactly what you said last time.”

“Is it?”

Was it his manner, or what he said, that flattered her, that intensified her beautiful vivacity?

“I suppose you don’t often go out?” he went on.

“What?  In this weather?”

“Any time.”

“I go to chapel,” said she, “and marketing with mother.”  There was a little pause.  “And to the Free Library.”

“Oh yes.  You’ve got a Free Library here now, haven’t you?”

“Yes.  We’ve had it over a year.”

“And you belong to it?  What do you read?”

“Oh, stories, you know.  I get a fresh book out once a week.”

“Saturdays, I suppose?”

“No,” she said.  “Wednesdays.”  And she smiled.  “Usually.”

“It’s Wednesday to-day,” said he.  “Not been already?”

She shook her head.  “I don’t think I shall go to-day.  It’s too cold.  I don’t think I shall venture out to-day.”

“You must be very fond of reading,” said he.

Then Mr. Povey appeared, rubbing his mittened hands.  And Mrs. Chatterley went.

“I’ll run and fetch mother,” said Constance.

Mrs. Baines was very polite to the young man.  He related his interview with the police, whose opinion was that he had been attacked by stray members of a gang from Hanbridge.  The young lady assistants, with ears cocked, gathered the nature of Mr. Scales’s adventure, and were thrilled to the point of questioning Mr. Povey about it after Mr. Scales had gone.  His farewell was marked by much handshaking, and finally Mr. Povey ran after him into the Square to mention something about dogs.

At half-past one, while Mrs. Baines was dozing after dinner, Sophia wrapped herself up, and with a book under her arm went forth into the world, through the shop.  She returned in less than twenty minutes.  But her mother had already awakened, and was hovering about the back of the shop.  Mothers have supernatural gifts.

Sophia nonchalantly passed her and hurried into the parlour where she threw down her muff and a book and knelt before the fire to warm herself.

Mrs. Baines followed her.  “Been to the Library?” questioned Mrs. Baines.

“Yes, mother.  And it’s simply perishing.”

“I wonder at your going on a day like to-day.  I thought you always went on Thursdays?”

“So I do.  But I’d finished my book.”

“What is this?” Mrs. Baines picked up the volume, which was covered with black oil-cloth.