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It’s not more than ten lines.’
‘Don’t you think I might take him some picture books to
look at, William? There are some of the Holy Land. There
couldn’t be anything wrong in that.’
‘Very well, I don’t mind.’
Mrs. Carey went into the study. To collect books was
Mr. Carey’s only passion, and he never went into Tercan-
bury without spending an hour or two in the second-hand
shop; he always brought back four or five musty volumes.
He never read them, for he had long lost the habit of read-
ing, but he liked to turn the pages, look at the illustrations if
they were illustrated, and mend the bindings. He welcomed
wet days because on them he could stay at home without
pangs of conscience and spend the afternoon with white of
egg and a glue-pot, patching up the Russia leather of some
battered quarto. He had many volumes of old travels, with
steel engravings, and Mrs. Carey quickly found two which
described Palestine. She coughed elaborately at the door so
that Philip should have time to compose himself, she felt
that he would be humiliated if she came upon him in the
midst of his tears, then she rattled the door handle. When
she went in Philip was poring over the prayer-book, hid-
ing his eyes with his hands so that she might not see he had
been crying.
‘Do you know the collect yet?’ she said.
He did not answer for a moment, and she felt that he did
not trust his voice. She was oddly embarrassed.
‘I can’t learn it by heart,’ he said at last, with a gasp.
‘Oh, well, never mind,’ she said. ‘You needn’t. I’ve got

Of Human Bondage