To-day, when it was all over, Mr. Sutcliffe took her back into the house,
and there on the hall table were the books he had got for her from the
London Library: The Heine, the Goethe's _Faust_, the Sappho, the Darwin's
_Origin of Species_, the Schopenhauer, _Die Welt als Wille und
Vorstellung_.

"Five? All at once?"

"I get fifteen. As long as we're here you shall have your five."

He walked home with her, carrying the books. Five. Five. And when you had
finished them there would be five more. It was unbelievable.

"Why are you so nice to me? Why? _Why_?"

"I think it must be because I like you, Mary."

Utterly unbelievable.

"Do--you--_really_--like me?"

"I liked you the first day I saw you. With your brother. On Greffington
Edge."

"I wonder why." She wondered what he was thinking, what, deep down inside
him, he was really thinking.

"Perhaps it was because you wanted something I could give you....
Tennis.... You wanted it so badly. Everything you want you want so