"
He added the last phrase so respectfully that she was mollified, and
rejoined with a sigh: "I'm afraid I can't help you much."
"Why?" he questioned in his turn; and she replied that there weren't
many books anyhow, and that she'd hardly read any of them. "The worms
are getting at them," she added gloomily.
"Are they? That's a pity, for I see there are some good ones." He seemed
to have lost interest in their conversation, and strolled away again,
apparently forgetting her. His indifference nettled her, and she picked
up her work, resolved not to offer him the least assistance. Apparently
he did not need it, for he spent a long time with his back to her,
lifting down, one after another, the tall cob-webby volumes from a
distant shelf.
"Oh, I say!" he exclaimed; and looking up she saw that he had drawn out
his handkerchief and was carefully wiping the edges of the book in his
hand. The action struck her as an unwarranted criticism on her care of
the books, and she said irritably: "It's not my fault if they're dirty.
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