so; it
was always disagreeable to her to sit in the manner of one totally unoccupied,
with hands on lap, and even when she consciously gave herself up to musing an
open book was generally before her. She did not, in truth, read much nowadays;
since the birth of her child she had seemed to care less than before for
disinterested study. If a new novel that had succeeded came into her hands she
perused it in a very practical spirit, commenting to Reardon on the features of
the work which had made it popular; formerly, she would have thought much more
of its purely literary merits, for which her eye was very keen. How often she
had given her husband a thrill of exquisite pleasure by pointing to some merit
or defect of which the common reader would be totally insensible! Now she spoke
less frequently on such subjects. Her interests were becoming more personal; she
liked to hear details of the success of popular authors - about their wives or
husbands, as the case might be, their arrangements with publishers, their
methods of work. The gossip columns of literary papers - and of some that were
not literary - had an attraction for her. She talked of questions such as
international copyright, was anxious to get an insight into the practical
conduct of journals and magazines, liked to know who read for the
publishing-houses. To an impartial observer it might have appeared that her
intellect was growing more active and mature.
    More than half an hour passed. It was not a pleasant train of thought that
now occupied her. Her lips were drawn together, her brows were slightly
wrinkled; the self-control which at other times was agreeably expressed upon her
features had become rather too cold and decided. At one moment it seemed to her
that she heard a sound in the bedroom - the doors were purposely left ajar - and
her head turned quickly to listen, the look in her eyes instantaneously
softening; but all remained quiet. The street would have been silent but for a
cab that now and then passed - the swing of a hansom or the roll of a
four-wheeler - and within the buildings nothing whatever was audible.
    Yes, a footstep, briskly mounting the stone stairs. Not like that of the
postman. A visitor, perhaps, to the other flat on the topmost landing. But the
final pause was in this direction, and then came a sharp rat-tat at the door.
Amy rose immediately and went to open.
    Jasper Milvain raised his urban silk hat, then held out his hand with the
greeting of frank friendship. His inquiries