The librarian raised her head, and at that moment it occurred to her that she would have to come up with an excuse or explanation immediately if she didn’t want him to find out or at least guess why she was leaving.
“I have to go to Italy,” she said suddenly.
“To Italy? Why?”
Quivering with nerves, Miss Prim played with her amethyst ring.
“It’s to do with my qualifications. No woman’s education is complete without living in Italy for a time.”
“Surely you don’t need any more qualifications? What would be the purpose?” he asked in consternation. “Are you trying to beat some record?”
Seeing his expression of bewilderment, she smiled faintly.
“You obviously don’t listen to your mother,” she said, her eyes glistening. “She has a fine theory that living in Italy has a beneficial influence on the conversation and manners of members of the female sex.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, it’s a completely stupid theory. You know that, don’t you?”
“May I remind you this is your mother you’re talking about,” she said in mock reproach. “I very much doubt she’s said a stupid thing in her life.”
“Well, in this instance I’m afraid she has.”
“At any rate, I’m leaving. I need to travel. I’ve been here too long.”
“But I thought you liked it here,” he muttered.
Sensing she wouldn’t be able to keep her emotions in check much longer, Miss Prim stood up resolutely.
“Please, don’t get sentimental,” she said with apparent nonchalance as she made for the door.
“I’ll miss you, Prudencia,” said the Man in the Wing Chair, raising his head.
“That’s very gallant of you, but it’s not really true and you know it.”
“Is that honestly what you think?” he said hoarsely, just before the librarian opened the door and left the room.
Miss Prim pulled the study door shut behind her and scurried along the corridor to the first-floor landing, then up a flight of stairs until at last she reached her bedroom. She closed the door quietly, took off her shoes, lay down on the bed, and, after staring at the coffered ceiling for a few moments, burst into disconsolate tears. Why was she always crying these days? She’d never been an emotional woman. If she was honest with herself, and just then it wasn’t hard to be, what she felt for the man couldn’t be called love. It had been an attraction forged practically against the odds. Perhaps it had been the challenge. Perhaps even an infatuation; but it wasn’t love. So was she crying out of pique? That must be it, she sighed, wiping away tears. For some reason, no doubt her conceited vanity, over the last few days she’d convinced herself that he felt something for her. And though he might have been attracted to her—she couldn’t rule it out—it was nothing like love.
Lost in thought, she heard a floorboard creak outside her room. Somebody had stopped in the corridor but did not want to make their presence known. She got up from the bed and stole toward the door. Her heart thumping, she didn’t hesitate another second—she grabbed the handle and flung open the door.
“What are you doing there?” she asked in surprise.
Septimus’s blond, disheveled head retreated.
“I wasn’t listening,” he said with absolute conviction.
Miss Prim’s expression softened and she gestured with her head for him to come in.
“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” he said, glancing at the half-packed suitcase on the bed.
“Who told you?”
“The gardener. He hears everything through the study window. Why are you crying? Has someone smacked you?”
The librarian, who had picked up a silk-jersey blouse and delicately begun to fold it, was startled.
