"All this is still preliminary to the great matter of the book, but the
mutterings of the priest who draws back the curtains of the shrine--and
here, after the scribe has left these two yellow pages blank as though
to set a space of reverence between himself and what comes next--here
speaks the truth, the voice, the fact of all life." But "Oh! Jones,"
she said, turning from the dusty pages and clasping her young, milk-warm
hands over mine and leaning towards me until her blushing cheek was near
to my shoulder and the incense of her breath upon me. "Oh! Gulliver
Jones," she said. "Make me read no more; my soul revolts from the task,
the crazy brown letters swim before my eyes. Is there no learning near
at hand that would be pleasanter reading than this silly book of yours?
What, after all," she said, growing bolder at the sound of her own voice,
"what, after all, is the musty reticence of gods to the whispered secret
of a maid? Jones, splendid stranger for whom all men stand aside and
women look over shoulders, oh, let me be your book!" she whispered,
slipping on to my knee and winding her arms round my neck till, through
the white glimmer of her single vest, I could feel her heart beating
against mine. "Newest and dearest of friends, put by this dreary learning
and look in my eyes; is there nothing to be spelt out there?"

And I was constrained to do as she bid me, for she was as fresh as an
almond blossom touched by the sun, and looking down into two swimming
blue lakes where shyness and passion were contending--books easy enough,
in truth, to be read, I saw that she loved me, with the unconventional
ardour of her nature.

It was a pleasant discovery, if its abruptness was embarrassing, for
she was a maid in a thousand; and half ashamed and half laughing I let
her escalade me, throwing now and then a rueful look at the Secret of
the Gods, and all that priceless knowledge treated so unworthily.