"I always did
want to know what was inside people's windows," she said.
And in the same way it was a feast to her to get hold of "a real
book," as she called it, not only the beginnings of everything, and
selections that always broke off just as she began to care about
them. She had been thoroughly well grounded, and had a thirst for
knowledge too real to have been stifled by the routine she had gone
through-—though, said she, "I do want time to get on further, and to
learn what won't be of any use!"
"Of no use!" said Mr. Brownlow laughing—-having just found her trying
to make out the Old English of King Alfred's 'Boethius'-—"such as
this?"
"Just so! They always are turning me off with 'This won't be of any
use to you.' I hate use—-"
"Like Ridley, who says he reads a book with double pleasure if he is
not going to review it."
"That Mr. Ridley who came in last evening?"
"Even so. Why that opening of eyes?"
"I thought a critic was a most formidable person."
"You expected to see a mess of salt and vinegar prepared for his
diet?"
"I should prepare something quite different—-milk and sweetbreads,
I think."
"To soften him? Do you hear, mother? Take advice."
Caroline-—or Carey, as she had begged to be called-—blushed, and drew
back half-alarmed, as she always was when the Doctor caught up any of
the little bits of fun that fell so shyly and demurely from her, as
they were evoked by the more congenial atmosphere.
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