Reaching over still further, in order to balance the Urn-Burial on the top of the Anatomy , “I’ve finished,” she murmured, “my seventh chapter.”

“Is it a real story, then?” he asked, wondering if she would yield to him without a struggle if he took her quickly by the wrists.

Her defensive gesture this time, as she responded to his question, was to flick off a small grey ash upon the cover of Hydriotaphia . He had long ago observed with an amused interest what a dislike to the use of ashtrays she had.

“I hope it’s real!” she murmured, in her most straw-like voice.

“The best thing would be,” he thought to himself, “just to take hold of her by her hands and lift her up!” Aloud he said. “What’s its title, if you don’t mind my asking that?”