“Now go and tell your mother that I desire to see her!” he commanded.
With slow steps I turned away, and, mounting the stairs, knocked at her door.
“Mother, there is a visitor downstairs!” I called out softly. “It is——”
“I know,” she answered calmly. “Go away. I shall be down in a few minutes.”
I went downstairs again and into the sitting-room, breathing more freely. Mr. Ravenor had not stirred, and when I entered appeared to be deep in thought. At the sound of my footsteps, however, his expression changed at once into its former impassiveness. He glanced round the room with an air of lazy curiosity and his half-closed eyes rested upon my little case of books.
“What have you there?” he inquired. “Read me out the titles.”
I did so, with just an inkling of reluctance, for my collection was altogether a haphazard one, precious though it was to me. Half-way through he checked me.
“There, that’ll do!” he exclaimed, laughing softly. “This is really idyllic. ‘Abercrombie’ and ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ ‘Jeremy Taylor’ and ‘Thomas à Kempis.’ My poor boy, if you have a headpiece at all, how it must want oiling!”
I was a little indignant at his tone and answered him quickly.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure that I should care for your kind of books very much.”