鐜涙牸涓界壒路濂ユ牸缁_Margaret Ogilvy_105

her. Mr. Stevenson’s books are not for the shelf, they are for the hand; even when you lay them down, let it be on the table for the next comer. Being the most sociable that man has penned in our time, they feel very lonely up there in a stately row. I think their eye is on you the moment you enter the room, and so you are drawn to look at them, and you take a volume down with the impulse that induces one to unchain the dog. And the result is not dissimilar, for in another moment you two are at play. Is there any other modern writer who gets round you in this way? Well, he had given my mother the look which in the ball-room means, ‘Ask me for this waltz,’ and she ettled to do it, but felt that her more dutiful course was to sit out the dance with this other less entertaining partner. I wrote on doggedly, but could hear the whispering. ‘Am I to be a wall-flower?’ asked James Durie reproachfully. (It must have been leap-year.) ‘Speak lower,’ replied my mother, with an uneasy look at me. ‘Pooh!’ said James contemptuously,