Herein she found, not the amazement of a new thing, but of a thing so natural that it appeared just a part of her very self, though, until now, an undiscovered one.

To read other people's books is a joyous employment, as she well knew; but to make a book all one's own self, to watch and compel its growth into coherent form and purpose is--so she began to suspect--among the rarest delights granted to mortal man.
Her own share of such making, in the present case, was of the humblest it is true, mere spade labour and hod-bearing--namely, writing from Charles Verity's dictation, verifying names and dates, checking references and quotations.

Still each arresting phrase, each felicitous expression, the dramatic ring of some virile word, the broad onward sweep of stately prose in narrative or sustained description, not only charmed her ear but challenged her creative faculty.

She put herself to school in respect of it all, learning day by day a lesson .-- This was the way it should be done.

Ambition prodded her on .-- For mightn't she aspire to do it too, some day?
Mightn't, granted patience and application, the writing of books prove to be her business, her vocation?
The idea floated before her, vague as yet, though infinitely beguiling.