Mr. Warrener had forgotten all about the book-shelves; he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared at Martha.
“Sent the zany, Martha? What for?”
Martha respectfully and patiently reminded him.
“To be sure, to be sure.” He turned and surveyed with a helpless resentment the books piled up in a corner of his room. “Bring him in, Martha,” he said, resignedly.
“You’ll have him in the room, sir, then?” said Martha dubiously.
“Why not? why not? to be sure, he has to put up the shelves,” replied Mr. Warrener, scenting disapproval.
“These gipsies, sir ... and the zany as naughty as a magpie?”
“I’ll stop with him, Martha,” said Mr. Warrener, who before the rebuke of his old servant instantly became a great coward.
He could not, however, endure the noise of sawing and nailing which began as soon as Olver had spread out his dust-sheet on the floor, but took his bee-hive hat and stole quietly away from the room. He greatly preferred that Olver should do the work wrong, or even that he should pilfer in the room, than that he should himself have to remain at hand to supervise or to furnish any further directions. He therefore retreated to a bench at the remotest corner of the garden, hoping that Martha would not detect him, where, taking his book from his pocket, he gave himself up to his interrupted reading, to the pleasant accompaniment of the bees busy in the limes, and of the distant small noises of a summer day. He had soon forgotten Martha’s remonstrance, and vaguely relied as usual on Clare guessing his wishes, as indeed she always seemed to do, and seeing to it on his behalf that Olver Lovel made no impossible mistake over the shelves.