“How old are you, Miss Bridget?” he asked, with an amused smile. “Eighteen? Well—read ‘Richard Feverel’ again when you are five-and-twenty.”
“Yes,” said Bridget, earnestly, raising her eyes. They were big and bright with excitement. “I’ll remember; but perhaps I shan’t care for novels then. I shall be so awfully old.”
The Professor laughed again. “What a delicious thing it is to be so awfully young!” he said. “Helen, light the lamps, my dear. Miss Bridget can’t see our slender stock of books properly by this light.”
“Oh, do you mind my turning them over so?” she asked, deprecatingly. “It’s such a treat to see so many. I feel excited at just looking at their covers.” There was a little tremor in her voice as she laughed.
“I see you touch them as a miser touches gold,” he returned. “Rilchester is not a good place for books, then?”
“It’s not a good place for anything,” Bridget began, impetuously, and checked herself. “No, I can’t get many books,” she added, in a studiedly quiet tone.
There was a pause. Bridget fluttered the leaves of the book of verse she held, and smoothed the cover gently, with a caressing touch, before she put it down.
Miss Mansfield had left the room a moment or two before to give an order to the servant, and Helen was busy with the lamps.
“May I look at the books on the shelves?” Bridget said, rising as she spoke.
“Certainly, you insatiable young woman,” returned the Professor.