close it. I—ahem! Step right this way, please, Miss Ems—ahem! I think we have just the book you want."
"I am not in any haste, Mr. Bramble," said she, regarding de Bosky with pitying eyes. "Let us all go back to the stove and—and—" She hesitated, biting her lip. The poor chap undoubtedly was sensitive. They always are.
"Good!" said Mr. Bramble eagerly. "And we'll have some tea. Bless my soul, how fortunate! I always have it at five o'clock. Trotter and I were just on the point of—so glad you happened in just at the right moment, Miss Emsdale. Ahem! And you too, de Bosky. Most extraordinary. You may leave your pipe on that shelf. Trotter. It smells dreadfully. No, no,—I wouldn't even put it in my pocket if I were you. Er—ahem! You have met Mr. Trotter, haven't you. Miss Emsdale?"
"You poor old boob," said Trotter, laying his arm over Bramble's shoulder in the most affectionate way. "Isn't he a boob, Miss Emsdale?"
"Not at all," said she severely. "He is a dear."
"Bless my soul!" murmured Mr. Bramble, doing as well as could be expected. He blessed it again before he could catch himself up.
"Sit here by the stove, Mr. de Bosky," said Miss Emsdale, a moment later. "Just as close as you can get to it."
"I have but a moment to stay," said de Bosky, a wistful look in his dark eyes.
"You'll have tea, de Bosky," said Mr. Bramble firmly. "Is the water boiling, Trotter?"
