r. Reynolds" with a smile and a
nod, and passing directly into the library.

"Why, hello, Tom," said a girl on the sofa facing the fireplace. Before
her was a tea wagon and she was at present pouring a cup for a slightly
stiff person in knickerbockers.

Tom shook hands with his host, lately Dean of Woodbridge and now, in the
absence of the President, acting in his place. He then turned to the
first gentleman, who, cup in hand, was making slow backward progress to
his seat. "How do you do?" Tom said with a slight bow.

"How are you, Reynolds," the other replied, hardly noticing him.

"Henry and father have just come back from curling and they say it is
perfectly rotten," continued the girl on the sofa. "Let's see, Tom, you
take one lump, don't you?"

He declined on the grounds of just having had tea and retiring to a
table in the rear of the tea group, idly picked up a copy of the _London
Times Literary Supplement_ that was lying on it. Henry, who had
apparently been interrupted, proceeded with a description of the various
characters that had taken part in the curling.

Tom's interest in the _Times_ was not very great, but his interest in
Henry Whitman's story was even less, and he frankly allowed his gaze to
wander over the books that covered the walls of the room. They were one
of the things that fascinated him in the house. They extended from the
floor to the ceiling and encircled the entire room, yielding only to the
wide, high fireplace and the five windows. A small section encased in
glass housed a few of the Dean's first editions and presentation copies,
but Tom rather resented it, breaking as it did the harmony of the whole
and pulling the eye to it with its reflecting panes. He had from the
first made the mental reservation that, were the house his, he should
take away that glass.

The dark blue velours sofa upon which Mary Norris was sitting, facing
the fire, he called "The Bosom of the Norris Family," and when there
were no heavy people like Henry Whitman about, he would occasionally
throw himself upon it, carefully pointing out each time the pretty
significance of his act. Behind the Bosom was a large and weighty desk
covered with a multitude of personal letters, belonging for the most
part to Mrs. Norris, a cheque-book open and face down in mute obeisance
to the blotter, newspaper clippings, spectacle cases, scissors, and ash
trays. In a neighbouring corner stood a table with imperfectly stacked
curr