“How could you be so stupid as never to tell me before?” said Marion, playfully. Geoffrey looked pleased.
“I’m not much of a novel reader,” he said; “to tell the truth I’m not sure that I did read them. Very few people knew anything about them.”
“What are they called?” asked Marion. But Geoffrey was quite at fault. Mr. Wrexham as usual came to the rescue. Not only with the names, but with slight but appreciative and well worded sketches of the two novels in question.
Marion was delighted, and still more so when their ever ready guest volunteered to procure for her copies of the books, though now, as Geoffrey had said, out of print.
Shortly after, Mr. Wrexham took his leave. Geoffrey undertook to put him on his road, as he expressed his intention of walking home. Marion was tired and went to bed, so it was not till the next morning at breakfast time that they compared notes on the subject of their guest.
“You liked him better when you came to talk more to him, did you not, Geoffrey?” asked Marion.
“I did and I didn’t,” he replied. “I have still that queer sort of feeling of not making him out. But it may be my fancy only. I daresay he’s straightforward enough.”
“He is unusually clever and well-informed,” said Marion.
“So I should think,” said Geoffrey, “though not going in for that sort of thing myself, I can admire it in others. Clever! oh dear yes! I only hope he’s not too clever.”
“Did you talk over your business matters satisfactorily?” enquired Mrs. Baldwin.