“That’s more’n I know, except to spoil my clothes with acids and things,” said Val. “Anyhow, if you can amuse yourself in the library I’m glad of it. Go ahead.”
It seemed to Bar Vernon that afternoon, as he wandered vaguely from one treasure of printing to another, as if he were soaking in learning from those elegantly bound volumes. The very leather on their backs had something wise and instructive in the smell of it.
So it seemed, indeed; nor was Bar’s notion so far wrong as it might be thought. A man is always a good deal influenced by his companions, especially if he takes a personal interest in them.
The companionship of books is only less powerful than that of human beings, just as their “study” is. As for the reverse of the proposition, if anybody doubts that human beings—boys, especially—“make an impression” on books, just let him lend them his own favorite volumes, and he will be speedily convinced.
Dr. Manning was by no means displeased that evening when he heard from Val a faithful account of the day’s doings.
Val had nothing to conceal, and he would never have dreamed of doing so, if he had, for he was his father’s own son in straightforward simplicity.
The dinner-hour was six o’clock, and after that there were visitors, and the doctor’s back-parlor, opening into the library, looked remarkably cheerful.
It was a warm evening, and the whole suite of rooms was thrown into one by opening the folding-doors, but the front part was only half-lighted.
Bar felt more than a little shy at first, but a strong feeling of gratitude was rapidly growing upon him.