“I always feel so stimulated when I am in a library, Mr. Canterton. I hope you don’t mind our——”
“Oh, not in the least!”
“I think we might make our notes here, Gertrude.”
Gertrude Canterton was standing by a revolving book-stand looking out the volume they needed.
“Yes. James, you might get us the other light, and put it on the table.”
He got up, fetched the portable red-shaded lamp from a book-stand, set it on the oak table in the centre of the room, and turned on the switch.
“Oh, and the ink, and a pen. Not one of your nibs. I can’t bear J’s.”
“Something thinner?”
“Please. Oh, and some paper. Some of that manuscript paper will do.”
They established themselves at the table, Mrs. Brocklebank with the volume, Gertrude with the pen and paper. Mrs. Brocklebank brought out her pince-nez, adjusted them half down her nose, and began to turn over the pages. Canterton took a book on moths from a shelf, and sat down in an easy chair.