"No—?" She was busy with the glass on the stand.
"But women have a kind of instinct about such things." He was impersonal and gallant; and the little shadow of disturbance left her face.
She moved about, making him comfortable.
"I wish you would ask my son to come here," said Medfield.
The young man came—with the catalogue in his hand. His face was open and cheerful.
"How far have you got?" asked Medfield.
"I don't understand all your hieroglyphics," replied the young man, seating himself on the edge of the bed. "This, for instance!" He held out the book, pointing to a brilliantly colored specimen with little pencilled dots on the margin.
Medfield glanced at it. "That means, 'Try again,'" he said.
"Oh—!" He made a memorandum on the margin, smiling a little as he did it.