Hyacinth found, this winter, considerable occupation for his odd hours, his evenings and holidays and scraps¹ of leisure, in putting in hand the books which he had promised himself, at Medley², to inclose in covers worthy³ of the high station and splendour of the lady of his life (these brilliant attributes had not then been shuffled⁴ out of sight), and of the confidence and generosity⁵ she showed him. He had determined⁶ she should receive from him something of value, and took pleasure in thinking that after he was gone they would be passed from hand to hand as specimens⁸ of rare work, while connoisseurs⁹ bent¹⁰ their heads over them, smiling and murmuring, handling them delicately. His invention stirred itself, and he had a hundred admirable ideas, many of which he sat up late at night to execute. He used all his skill, and by this time his skill was of a very high order. Old Crookenden recognised it by raising the rates at which he was paid; and though it was not among the traditions of the proprietor¹¹ of the establishment in Soho, who to the end wore the apron¹² with his workmen, to scatter¹³ sweet speeches, Hyacinth learned accidentally that several books that he had given him to do had been carried off and placed on a shelf of treasures at the

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