I was hard at work in my shirt-sleeves, carrying an armful of books across the corridor, and thinking whether I had not better bring my servant with me in the afternoon, when Clara came out of her room.
‘Here already, Wilfrid!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why don’t you have some of the servants to help you? You’re doing what any one might as well do for you.’
‘If these were handsomely bound,’ I answered, ‘I should not so much mind; but being old and tattered, no one ought to touch them who does not love them.’
‘Then, I suppose, you wouldn’t trust me with them either, for I cannot pretend to anything beyond a second-hand respect for them.’
‘What do you mean by a second-hand respect?’ I asked.
‘I mean such respect as comes from seeing that a scholar like you respects them.’
‘Then I think I could accord you a second-hand sort of trust—under my own eye, that is,’ I answered, laughing. ‘But you can scarcely leave your hostess to help me.’
‘I will ask Miss Brotherton to come too. She will pretend all the respect you desire.’
‘I made three times the necessary dust in order to frighten her away yesterday.’
‘Ah! that’s a pity. But I shall manage to overrule her objections—that is, if you would really like two tolerably educated housemaids to help you.’