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ButthesightoftheyoungmanturninginatMissHatchard’sgatehadbroughtbackthevisionoftheglitteringstreetsofNettleton,andshefeltashamedofheroldsun-hat,andsickofNorthDormer,andjealouslyawareofAnnabelBalchofSpringfield,openingherblueeyessomewherefaroffongloriesgreaterthanthegloriesofNettleton.
“HowIhateeverything!”shesaidagain.
Halfwaydownthestreetshestoppedataweak-hingedgate.Passingthroughit,shewalkeddownabrickpathtoaqueerlittlebricktemplewithwhitewoodencolumnssupportingapedimentonwhichwasinscribedintarnishedgoldletters:“TheHonoriusHatchardMemorialLibrary,1832.”
HonoriusHatchardhadbeenoldMissHatchard’sgreat-uncle;thoughshewouldundoubtedlyhavereversedthephrase,andputforward,asheronlyclaimtodistinction,thefactthatshewashisgreat-niece.ForHonoriusHatchard,intheearlyyearsofthenineteenthcentury,hadenjoyedamodestcelebrity.Asthemarbletabletintheinteriorofthelibraryinformeditsinfrequentvisitors,hehadpossessedmarkedliterarygifts,writtenaseriesofpaperscalled“TheRecluseofEagleRange,”enjoyedtheacquaintanceofWashingtonIrvingandFitz-GreeneHalleck,andbeencutoffinhisflowerbyafevercontractedinItaly.
