crushed in falling; and, with the instinct of a bookish man, he saw nothing more pressing to be done than to flatten the corners of the leaves.
"Byron's Poems!" he said, in a tone of disgust, while Esther was recovering all the other articles. "'The Dream' — he'd better have been asleep and snoring. What! do you stuff your memory with Byron, Miss Lyon?"
Felix, on his side, was led at last to look straight at Esther, but it was with a strong denunciatory and pedagogic intention. Of course he saw more clearly than ever that she was a fine lady.
She reddened, drew up her long neck, and said, as she retreated to her chair again,
"I have a great admiration for Byron."
Mr Lyon had paused in the act of drawing his chair to the tea-table, and was looking on at this scene, wrinkling the corners of his eyes with a perplexed smile. Esther would not have wished him to know anything about the volume of Byron, but she was too proud to show any concern.
"He is a worldly and vain writer, I fear," said Mr Lyon. He knew scarcely anything of the poet, whose books embodied the faith and ritual of many young ladies and gentlemen.
