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Maurier, who played Captain Hook and Mr Darling in J. M. Barrie's first production of Peter Pan, and granddaughter of George du Maurier, the author of Trilby, a novel that Symington enjoyed, many years ago, when he was still a young man. For some reason, these facts coalesced in his mind to evoke a curiously compelling picture of her as a winged creature, a beautiful butterfly, perhaps, like those he had collected as a boy, netting and etherising them, before pinning them in a series of wooden cases that he still possessed, stacked in dusty piles in the attic.
    Symington also imagined that Daphne du Maurier must be very rich. Somewhere in his extensive, boxed collection of magazines he vaguely remembered an article about her, that he'd put away for Beatrice, describing her reclusive life in a remote mansion in Cornwall by the sea - the setting for Rebecca, which was Beatrice's favourite - and her marriage to a renowned military man, knighted after the war, and subsequently appointed to some high-up job at Buckingham Palace. Symington filed these things away in his head - he tried to be orderly, after his years as a librarian - but instead of putting Daphne du Maurier in her place, they made him feel uncertain. He would have preferred to be dismissive of this woman - why did she assume he had any time to spare her, when he had his own research to continue, and his own literary ambitions to fulfil? Yet he could not suppress his eagerness to know more about her unexpected interest in Branwell Brontë, and perhaps to sell her a few of his manuscripts. Though probably not. . . he reached out to touch the fragile pages he had withdrawn from his files this morning. Why should he trust her with these most precious of possessions? What if she were to mistreat them, or disregard them? She was likely to be as misguided and neglectful as everyone else who coveted his manuscripts, and all the others who must be kept at bay.
    Symington glanced over his file of household accounts that sat to the left of his desk blotter; neatly notated by him, as always, in small columns, everything added up, except it didn't add up, the house was eating up money, and so did Beatrice, what did she spend all the money on? He closed his eyes tightly and sighed, and when he opened them, the room swam around him for a moment, before settling down in the dusty half-light. There was nothing for it; he would have to part with some of his papers to this Daphne du Maurier, but not many, not quite yet.
    Symington picked up his pen again, and let it hover over the figure of four pounds that he proposed as payment for the two books. He had already taken several minutes to fix on this price; he did not wish to appear greedy or grasping - he could not bear a repetition of earlier transactions, which became unpleasant in ways he did not like to recall - but neither was he prepared to donate the books to her. He had other copies, of course; of the fifty original copies of each edition, he had placed only fifteen for sale with a firm of antiquarian book dealers, soon after their publication, keeping the rest for himself. But even so, it pained him to see any of Branwell's writings scattered from his house, instead of remaining safely at home, in his meticulous care.
    Another drop of ink fell on to the page; Symington blotted it, and paused for a while. He did not want to stop writing: he had matters he would like to share with Daphne, who seemed surprisingly knowledgeable, as well as gratifyingly deferential in her tone to him; and it had been a longtime since he could bask in such respect. But he knew he must choose his words carefully, he must not give too much away, for there was always a price to be paid. He wondered how much she already knew about his co-editor on the Shakespeare Head edition; did she know about the scandals concerning Wise? Mrs Weir was discreet, of course, and it had all been hushed up and brushed under the carpet at the time, but even so, there were