I looked across to Ada, and nodded. Characteristically, she rose from her knees, crossed to the window, and drew down the blind.
VIII
Next morning, Ada Weeks and I sat facing one another in my study, across a newly opened packing-case. It contained Mr. Baxter's Library.
"But why must we?" I asked.
"We needn't worry why. He said every blessed book was to be destroyed, and that's all there is about it. Mr. McAndrew is burning rubbish outside: I've told him we've got some more for him. Let's get it over, and go back to Grampa—sir," concluded Ada suddenly, remembering somewhat tardily that she was addressing her employer.
We unpacked the books. First came some musty theological tomes.
"He knew a lot out of them," remarked Ada. "Used to fire it off at the Rector, and people who didn't believe in religion, or couldn't. He picked it all up from his old Archdeacon, though, long before I came to him."
"When did you come, by the way?"
"Nearly six years ago now. I was living with an aunt. She went and died when I was nine, and Grampa sent for me here. It was me that learned him all his new stuff—science, and machinery, and aeroplanes, and things like that. He didn't know nothink but Latin and Greek and history and things up till then. Here's the Cyclopædia coming out now. He never used it till I come. He never even knew it was four volumes short until I told him.... This next lot is mostly little books he picked up cheap at second-hand places—mouldy little things, most of 'em. Some of them were useful, though. Here's one—'The Amateur Architect.' It's queer how fussy people can be about house-planning, and ventilation, and drainage, and things like that, especially when they know they've got to live all their lives in a house where they have no more say in the ventilation and drainage than my aunt's cat! Grampa had to learn nearly the whole of this book, they wanted so many different bits of it. Well, I think we have fuel enough now for a start."