"Mutton broth," she said; "you didn't eat any dinner. Have you been asleep?"
"No," Hilda complained. "I couldn't; just as I was dropping off, half a dozen doors began to slam. Is there any salt in it?" Her voice was small and high. The first time that one heard it pipe from her queenliness one felt dismayed. One felt as if the grand organ stops had produced the effect of a penny whistle.
Bee nodded, and made up the fire. "It's snowing again," she said. "Why didn't you wait till the spring before you had your influenza?—then you might have gone to the seaside afterwards. Doctor Fellowes doesn't think it would do you much good this weather. I met him just now in Market Street, and asked him."
"What did he say?"
"He thought you had better wait till it was warmer and you could sit about more. I went to Tuffington's; I couldn't get any of the books on your list—they haven't had them down, of course. Miss Tuffington said that nobody had asked for them."
Tuffington's was the principal circulating library and bookseller's of Beckenhampton. The proprietor was at present displaying, at three-and-elevenpence-halfpenny, in wadded roan, a line that he had labelled "Tuffington's Series of Padded Poets. Tried, and not found wanting. Specially recommended." It was a rare occurrence to find a recent novel there, however, and he made no reference to padded fiction. Hilda's gesture was more impatient than surprised.
"There were eighteen on that list," she said. "I'm sure I don't know what we subscribe for. I can't keep on reading East Lynne and Jane Eyre all my life. Didn't you bring anything at all?"
"They said they'd try to send you up something to-night before they shut. I could only get the book I'd ordered—the one that's criticised in the Review of Reviews this month."
"Poetry!" She wrinkled her dainty nose. "What sinful waste of money. Where is it? Let's look."
"It's downstairs—I left it in the hall when I went to see about your broth. Shall I fetch it?"