Dale drew back, and spoke coldly, almost rudely.
"Indeed? I am not aware of any reason for your doing so."
"I ought to have said, hoping to see you."
"Oh. May I ask why?"
Mr. Osborn laughed contentedly. "Since I saw you at our service, you know. Please come into my room."
It was not an attractive or nicely furnished room. All one side of it was occupied by the lathe, bench, and tools; and on this side the boards of the floor, with a carpet rolled back, were covered with wood shavings.
"There, take off your wraps and be seated, Mr. Dale. I'll sort my rubbish. Stuffy night, isn't it?"
Dale noticed that there was no bookcase, and he could not detect more than six books anywhere lying about. Perhaps there were some in the chiffonier. He would have expected to find quite a little library at a house tenanted by this sort of man.
"What do you think of that?" And Mr. Osborn handed him the small round box which he had been turning. "I amuse myself so. It's my hobby."
"You don't feel the want to read of an evening?"