IV

           Glennard,thenextafternoon,leavinghisofficeearlierthanusual,turned,onhiswayhome,intooneofthepubliclibraries.

           Hehadtheplacetohimselfatthatclosinghour,andthelibrarianwasabletogiveanundividedattentiontohistentativerequestforletters—collectionsofletters.ThelibrariansuggestedWalpole.

           “Imeantwomen—women’sletters.”

           ThelibrarianprofferedHannahMoreandMissMartineau.

           Glennardcursedhisowninarticulateness.“Imeanlettersto—tosomeoneperson—aman;theirhusband—or—”

           “Ah,”saidtheinspiredlibrarian,“EloiseandAbailard.”

           “Well—somethingalittlenearer,perhaps,”saidGlennard,withlightness.“Didn’tMerimee—”

           “Thelady’sletters,inthatcase,werenotpublished.”

           “Ofcoursenot,”saidGlennard,vexedathisblunder.

           “ThereareGeorgeSand’sletterstoFlaubert.”

           “Ah!”Glennardhesitated.“Wasshe—werethey—?”Hechafedathisownignoranceofthesentimentalby-pathsofliterature.

           “Ifyouwantlove-letters,perhapssomeoftheFrencheighteenthcenturycorrespondencesmightsuityoubetter—Mlle.AisseorMadamedeSabran—”

           ButGlennardinsisted.“Iwantsomethingmodern—EnglishorAmerican.Iwanttolooksomethingup,”helamelyconcluded.

           ThelibrariancouldonlysuggestGeorgeEliot.

           “Well,givemesomeoftheFrenchthings,then—andI’llhaveMerimee’sletters.Itwasthewomanwhopublishedthem,wasn’tit?”

           Hecaughtuphisarmful,transferringit,onthedoorstep,toacabwhichcarriedhimtohisrooms.