Edith Wharton

Summer Edith Wharton

"No, I don't suppose you do know," he corrected himself. "In fact, it would be almost a pity--" She thought she detected a slight condescension in his tone, and asked sharply: "Why?" "Because it's so much pleasanter, in a small library like this, to poke about by one's self-with the help of the librarian." He added the last phrase so respectfully that she was mollified, and rejoined with a sigh: "I'm afraid I can't help you much." "Why?" he questioned in his turn; and she replied that there weren't many books anyhow, and that she'd hardly read any of them. "The worms are getting at them," she added gloomily. "Are they? That's a pity, for I see there are some good ones." He seemed to have lost interest in their conversation, and strolled away again, apparently forgetting her. His indifference nettled her, and she picked up her work, resolved not to offer him the least assistance. Apparently he did not need it, for he spent a long time with his back to her, lifting down, one after another, the tall cob-webby volumes from a distant shelf. "Oh, I say!" he exclaimed; and looking up she saw that he had drawn out his handkerchief and was carefully wiping the edges of the book in his hand.