“It’s not likely to interfere with my studies, is it?” he asked, with a smile.
“Well, no, I suppose these little things do not catch your eye and fidget you. Did I tell you that we have put all the books in order?”
“I hope not,” said Mr. Aylwinne; then, as he saw her blank glance, he added laughingly: “I mean that I hope you have not been arranging them according to the size and binding instead of the contents.”
“Would it signify?” Mrs. Wilson asked innocently. “I’m no reader myself, but I like to see books put on their shelves uniformly; it makes them look so nice and neat. However, I have left it to Miss Heriton. She will tell you what she has done.”
“I cannot pretend to have made a satisfactory classification of so many volumes,” Florence replied, “but I have arranged them to the best of my judgment.”
“You are very good,” said Mr. Aylwinne, a little stiffly. “I have no doubt they will do very well. Where have you put my ‘Carlo Dolce,’ Mrs. Wilson?”
“Your what, sir?”
“Picture, madam—a small painting of two female heads.”
“Oh, I know now,” said the housekeeper briskly. “It is in the study. That picture, you know, Miss Heriton, that you said reminded you so much of your mother.”
Mr. Aylwinne started from his lounging attitude and walked quickly to the door. As he opened it he seemed to recollect himself, and came back again.