There were so many dim corners and passages where Mrs.Goodwyn-Sandys needed guidance; and, after all, the minions were sufficient for the work.

They rummaged here and there among casks and chests, weighing, counting, and sealing, whilst the red-faced Uriah stood over them and occasionally looked from the Collector to the lady with a slow grin of growing intelligence.
They were seated together on a cask, and Mr.Moggridge had possessed himself, for the twentieth time, of his companion's hand.
"You think the verses obscure ?" he was whispering.

"Ah! Geraldine, if I could only speak out from the heart! As it is, 'Euphelia serves to grace my measure!'" "Who's she ?" asked Mrs.Goodwyn-Sandys, whose slight acquaintance with other poets was, perhaps, the reason why she rated her companion's verse so highly.
"'The merchant, to conceal his treasure, Conveys it in a borrowed name,'" Mr.Moggridge began to quote.--"Why, Geraldine, what is the matter?
Are you faint ?" "No; it is nothing." "I thought you seemed pale.

As I was saying--" 'The merchant, to conceal his treasure--' "Yes, yes, I know," said she, rising abruptly.

"It is very hot and close down here." "Then you _were_ faint ?" "Here's your chest, marm," called the voice of Uriah T.Potter.
She turned and walked towards it.