"You don't seem very hearty about that sentiment."
"I am, for all that. With a good novel I would now be utterly content for an hour or two. By the bye, I left my book on the library table. If you were good-natured, Molly, I know what you would do."
"So do I: I would get it for you. Well, taking into consideration all things, your age and growing infirmities among them, I will accept your hint." And, rising, she goes in search of the missing volume.
Opening the library door with a little bang and a good deal of reckless unconsciousness, she finds herself in Mr. Amherst's presence.
"Oh!" cries she, with a surprised start. "I beg your pardon, grandpapa. If"—pausing on the threshold—"I had known you were here, I would not have disturbed you."
"You don't disturb me," replies he, without looking up; and, picking up the required book, Molly commences a hasty retreat.
But just as she gains the door her grandfather's voice once more arrests her.
"Wait," he says; "I want to ask you a question that—that has been on my mind for a considerable time."
To the commonest observer it would occur that from the break to the finish of this little sentence is one clumsy invention.
"Yes?" says Molly.