Groping our way through the musty bath-room, in which a tiny jet of gas was flickering, we stepped into a large, almost luxurious chamber. It was a library, well-furnished, carpeted, and surrounded by shelves fairly bulging with books. But for the chillness and bad light, it was perfect. As I moved about, Arthur followed me with his eyes.
“There are some rare works on botany—”
I had already discovered them, a set of books that I would have given much to own. I could not contain my joy.
“You won’t be so bored browsing around in here—”
In spite of my preoccupation, I pricked up my ears. In that monotonous voice there was no sympathy with my joy. It was cold and tired.
When I had satisfied my curiosity we returned to the front room, and Arthur flung himself, or rather fell, upon the couch. It was nearly five o’clock and quite dark. As I lighted the gas, I heard a sound below as of somebody thumping on the wall.
“That’s the old woman,” Arthur explained. “She cooks my meals, but she’s too lame to bring them up.”
He made a feeble attempt at rising, but I saw he was worn out.
“Don’t stir,” I warned him. “I’ll bring up your food tonight.”
To my surprise, I found the dinner appetizing and well-cooked, and, in spite of the fact that I did not like the looks of the old woman, I ate with relish. Arthur barely touched a few spoonfuls of soup to his lips and absently crumbled some bread in his plate.