"He's in the Free Library," said Louise, with a twinkle. Clare turned.
"You can have all the books you want, if you come to me. But no more Free Library, Louise. You understand? I don't wish it."
Louise tingled like a bather under a cold spray. She liked and disliked the autocratic tone.
Clare went on.
"I detest trash—and there's a good deal, even in a Carnegie collection. There's no need for you to dull your imagination on melodrama like—what was it?"
"What, Miss Hartill?"
"The play you began to tell me about—you thought it horrible, you said."
Louise opened her eyes.
"Miss Hartill, it wasn't melodrama—it was good stuff. That's why it worried me. It's by a Norwegian or a Dane or some one. Pastor Sang it's called."
"That? I don't follow. I should have thought the theology would have bored you, but there's nothing horrible in it."