of self. To Mr. Rickman, striving to be noiseless, it seemed that the
sound of his boots, as he crossed the library, reverberated through
the immensity of space, while the creaking of his new braces
advertised in the most horrible manner his rising up and his sitting
down. Things were worse when he sat down; for then his breathing,
light but noticeably frequent, made him the unquiet centre of the
room. In the surrounding stillness the blowing of his nose became a
monstrous and appalling act. And no sooner was his attention
abstracted from his nose than it settled in his throat, producing a
series of spasmodic contractions which he imagined to be distinctly
audible. It was really as if his body had somehow detached itself, and
was rioting in a conspicuous and unseemly individuality of its own. He
wondered what Miss Harden thought of its behaviour.

This state of things was bad enough when he was separated from her by
the entire length of the room; but their work required a certain
collaboration, and there were occasions when he was established near
her, when deliberately, in cold blood and of his own initiative, he
was compelled to speak to her. No language could describe the anguish
and difficulty of these approaches. His way was beset by obstacles and
perils, by traps and snares; and at every turn there waited for him
the shameful pitfall of the aitch. He whose easy courtesy charmed away
the shyness of Miss Flossie Walker, whose conversation (when he
deigned to converse) was the wonder and delight of the ladies of his
boarding-house, now blushed to hear himself speak. The tones of his
voice were hateful to him; he detected in them some subtle and
abominable quality that he had not observed before. How would they
appeal to Miss Harden? For this miserable consciousness of himself was
pervaded, transcended by his consciousness of her.