"Yes, the Odes of Horace."
"Promising—quite. But of course Horace is not library work." The tone conveyed that this was not Horace's fault, however. "Still, in this work you will find, Miss Norris, that every scrap of human knowledge is profitable. I might almost say necessary. It is its wonderful variety, roots in all fields, that makes our work so interesting."
"It must."
"Exactly. Now the question is, Miss Norris, would you be willing to begin at the bottom, sorting? Cataloguing comes next, and then——" But as if fearing that he was being carried away in an excess of enthusiasm, he qualified. "Of course that is if we find it mutually satisfactory."
"I should be willing to begin anywhere. And I have done a little sorting and cataloguing. The library I used for Horace was in something of a mess, and I had to straighten it out before I could begin."
"Exactly. But you will understand, Miss Norris, that no part of our library is in a mess." The shadow of a smile touched his lips and was gone. It was as if a cosmic joke, millions of miles off, had been softly whispered to him. "And now, as I have a very busy morning, I will hand you over to my assistant, Miss MacFarland."
He touched an electric button in the wall. With no preliminary sound the outer door opened.
"Miss MacFarland, this is Miss Norris, recommended by Dr. Renshaw. She will help at first with the new consignment."
His tone admitted Miss MacFarland to the depths of his official being. She nodded.
"Will you come with me?"