'I shall like the flowers better now that I know they are also meant for me.'
'How could you have doubted it? If you will tell me the kind you like best I will send a double lot of them.'
'Oh, I like them all best!' Then she went on, familiarly: 'Shall you study—shall you read and write—when you go up to your rooms?'
'I don't do that at night, at this season. The lamplight brings in the animals.'
'You might have known that when you came.'
'I did know it!'
'And in winter do you work at night?'
'I read a good deal, but I don't often write.' She listened as if these details had a rare interest, and suddenly a temptation quite at variance with the prudence I had been teaching myself associated itself with her plain, mild face. Ah yes, she was safe and I could make her safer! It seemed to me from one moment to another that I could not wait longer—that I really must take a sounding. So I went on: 'In general before I go to sleep—very often in bed (it's a bad habit, but I confess to it), I read some great poet. In nine cases out of ten it's a volume of Jeffrey Aspern.'
I watched her well as I pronounced that name but I saw nothing wonderful. Why should I indeed—was not Jeffrey Aspern the property of the human race?
'Oh, we read him—we have read him,' she quietly replied.
'He is my poet of poets—I know him almost by heart.'
For an instant Miss Tita hesitated; then her sociability was too much for her.
