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 tain a book, read a few pages; whereupon he jumped up from his seat and went straight to the shop with the book under his arm.

‘Why has this been sent to my house?’ he asked peremptorily, holding up the volume.

‘It was ordered, sir.’

‘Not by me, or any one belonging to me, I am happy to say.’

The shopkeeper looked into his order-book.

‘Oh, it has been misdirected, sir,’ he said. ‘It was ordered by Mr. Angel Clare, and should have been sent to him.’

Mr. Clare winced as if he had been struck. He went home pale and dejected, and called Angel into his study.

‘Look into this book, my boy,’ he said. ‘What do you know about it?’

‘I ordered it,’ said Angel simply.

‘What for?’

‘To read.’

‘How can you think of reading it?’

‘How can I? Why—it is a system of philosophy. There is no more moral, or even religious, work published.’

‘Yes—moral enough; I don’t deny that. But