abilities were too pronounced for her to be anything she tried to make you think she was. She loved big words and used them with the glib mispronunciation of one who reads but doesn't converse. Once, unknown to her, I saw her lean her broom against the lace curtains in the living-room and peer with her short-sighted eyes along the shelves of the book-case. She took one down in a quick, secretive way and ran over the pages. Her sleeves were rolled up and her head swathed in part of a retired sheet. Her spectacles reflected the light like diminutive panes of glass. She moved with the swift, furtive gestures of one self-accused. With a little inner pang I noted the book that had attracted her attention. It was Hardy's "Life's Little Ironies."
Once, just, I caught a glimpse of the real Bleason beneath the camouflage. A very unpleasant incident in our household was reported to me, in which circumstances seemed to implicate Bleason. It became my duty to interrogate her and to drop the tone of friendly casualness which mostly governed our intercourse. I spoke very frankly indeed, not as mistress to maid, but as person to person. Somehow Bleason could be approached on no
