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 brightly and removed the paper coverings with no hint of her perturbation. Inside was a leather-bound book, beautifully tooled, though Lydia was scarcely able to appreciate the fineness of it. What she could see, however, was the simplicity of it, the excellence, the sound good taste of it…. It was Milton’s Sonnets! She looked sharply at Angus, appraising him as she had never done before. Somehow this slight thing elevated him in her estimation. Perhaps it was the subtle compliment of supposing Milton’s Sonnets were suitable to her mental caliber—for Rainbow sets store by what it knows as “culture.”

“Thank you,” she said simply.

“I… liked them,” he said. “The one about his blindness… and so I hoped you….”

“Indeed I shall like them, and you shall read them to me… Come, I want you to meet everybody.”

She permitted her hand to rest on his arm as they passed out on the porch. It was plain they were expected, for the air carried a tingle of suspense as though the guests awaited some dénouement. Without affectation Lydia introduced Angus to Myrtle Cuyler, who spoke primly, almost affrightedly. She presented him to the Bowen twins, to several others grouped about the steps, and then conveyed him down the