“She told me so,—or hardly that: she was merely led to say she was not strong, and a glance at that pale drawn face, Miss Lyndsay, would—pardon me—I—”
“No. Perhaps I should explain my surprise. It was because to hear of Aunt Anne as confessing weakness was to me more strange than you can imagine, unless you knew her as we do.”
“I liked it,” said Carington.
“Yes. It means that she—well—it means that she is going to like you—a signal.”
“Thank you; that is very pleasant. But, talking of books again, you left off just where I hoped you were going to tell me what books after your kind go into the family ark.”
“I was going to do nothing of the sort,” cried Rose, with a laugh. “You will think we are a dull set of mere book-grubbers. I can assure you we are very foolish people, and can be as silly as the silliest.”
“You shall have credit for any possible margin of folly.”
“Oh, there must be a limit. I did not want to leave you to think we are what Aunt Anne calls book proud.”
“Book proud?”
“Yes. You must have known people who seem at some time to have suddenly discovered books, the real books, and are vastly set up by their new-found wealth.”