He seated himself in his black horse-hair armchair, and she leaned against the window, indifferently. She was impatient to be gone to the library, to hunt for the book on North Dormer.
“See here,” he said, “why ain't you at the library the days you're supposed to be there?”
The question, breaking in on her mood of blissful abstraction, deprived her of speech, and she stared at him for a moment without answering.
“Who says I ain't?”
“There's been some complaints made, it appears. Miss Hatchard sent for me this morning——”
Charity's smouldering resentment broke into a blaze. “I know! Orma Fry, and that toad of a Targatt girl and Ben Fry, like as not. He's going round with her. The low-down sneaks—I always knew they'd try to have me out! As if anybody ever came to the library, anyhow!”
“Somebody did yesterday, and you weren't there.”
“Yesterday?” she laughed at her happy recollection. “At what time wasn't I there yesterday, I'd like to know?”
“Round about four o'clock.”
Charity was silent. She had been so steeped in the dreamy remembrance of young Harney's visit that she had forgotten having deserted her post as soon as he had left the library.