"Then the New is different? There was Dorcas, you know, and the widow's son. That is all true, Miss Hartill?"
"I want to know the truth," said Louise tensely. "I want to know what you think." She spoke as if the two things were synonymous.
"I won't help you, Louise. You must find out for yourself. Leave it alone, if you're wise."
Clare's gravity fled. She lay back shaking with laughter.
"Louise, you're delightful! Anything else?"
Louise pulled up her footstool to Clare's knee.
"Miss Hartill, I've been reading a play. It's horrible. I can't bear it, though it was thrilling to read----"
"Where do you get all these books, Louise?"
"They are all Mother's, you know. Nobody else wants them. And then there's the Free Library."
Clare shuddered. She would sooner have drunk from the tin cup of a public fountain than have handled the greasy volumes of a public library.
"How can you?" she said disgustedly. "Dirt and dog-ears!"
Louise opened her eyes. She was too young to be squeamish.
"'A book's a book for a' that,'" she laughed. "How else am I to get hold of any--that I like?"
Clare jerked her head to the lined walls.
"May I? Oh, you are good! I will take such care. I'll cover them in brown paper."
She jumped up and, running across the room, flung herself on her knees before the wide shelves. Timidly, at first, but with growing forgetfulness of Clare, she pulled out here a volume and there a volume, handling them tenderly, yet barely opening each, so eager was she for fresh discoveries. She reminded Clare of _Alice_ with the scented rushes. Clare was amused by her absorption, and a little touched. The child's attitude to books hinted at the solitariness of her life: she relaxed to them, greeting them as intimates and companions; there was a new appearance on her; she was obviously at home, welcomed by her friends; a very different person to the shy-eyed, prim little prodigy her school-fellows knew.
Clare, glancing at her now and then, sympathised benevolently, and left her to herself; she understood that side of the child; her remark to Louise about the resemblance between them had not been made at random; she was constantly detecting traits and tastes in her similar to her own. She was interested; she had thought herself unique. Their histories were not dissimilar; she, too, different as her environment had been, could look back on a lonely, self-absorbed childhood; she, too, had had forced and premature successes. They had not been empty ones, she reflected complacently; she had used those schoolgirl triumphs as stepping-stones. She doubted if Louise could do the same: there was something unpractical about Louise--a hint of the visionary in her air. She had at present none of Clare's passion for power and the incense of success. Clare, quite aware of her failing, aware that it was a failing and perversely proud of it, yet hoped that she should not see it sprouting in the character of Louise. She hated to see her own defects reproduced (ineffably vulgarised) in others; it jarred her pride. The discovery of the resemblance between herself and Louise amused and charmed her, as long as it was confined to the qualities that Clare admired; but if the girl began to reflect her faults, Clare knew that she should be irritated.