“When I first came you couldn’t look at me,” Bibbs explained, in his impersonal way.  “But I’ve noticed you look at me lately.  I wondered if I’d—­”

“It’s because you look so much better,” she told him, cheerfully.  “This month you’ve been here’s done you no end of good.  It’s the change.”

“Yes, that’s what they said at the sanitarium—­the change.”

“You look worse than ’most anybody I ever saw,” said Edith, with supreme candor.  “But I don’t know much about it.  I’ve never seen a corpse in my life, and I’ve never even seen anybody that was terribly sick, so you mustn’t judge by me.  I only know you do look better, I’m glad to say.  But you’re right about my not being able to look at you at first.  You had a kind of whiteness that—­Well, you’re almost as thin, I suppose, but you’ve got more just ordinarily pale; not that ghastly look.  Anybody could look at you now, Bibbs, and no—­not get—­”

“Sick?”

“Well—­almost that!” she laughed.  “And you’re getting a better color every day, Bibbs; you really are.  You’re getting along splendidly.”

“I—­I’m afraid so,” he said, ruefully.

“‘Afraid so’!  Well, if you aren’t the queerest!  I suppose you mean father might send you back to the machine-shop if you get well enough.  I heard him say something about it the night of the—­” The jingle of a distant bell interrupted her, and she glanced at her watch.  “Bobby Lamhorn!  I’m going to motor him out to look at a place in the country.  Afternoon, Bibbs!”

When she had gone, Bibbs mooned pessimistically from shelf to shelf, his eye wandering among the titles of the books.  The library consisted almost entirely of handsome “uniform editions”:  Irving, Poe, Cooper, Goldsmith, Scott, Byron, Burns, Longfellow, Tennyson, Hume, Gibbon, Prescott, Thackeray, Dickens, De Musset, Balzac, Gautier, Flaubert, Goethe, Schiller, Dante, and Tasso.  There were shelves and shelves of encyclopedias, of anthologies, of “famous classics,” of “Oriental masterpieces,” of “masterpieces of oratory,” and more shelves of “selected libraries” of “literature,” of “the drama,” and of “modern science.”  They made an effective decoration for the room, all these big, expensive books, with a glossy binding here and there twinkling a reflection of the flames that crackled in the splendid Gothic fireplace; but Bibbs had an impression that the bookseller who selected them considered them a relief, and that white-jacket considered them a burden of dust, and that nobody else considered them at all.  Himself, he disturbed not one.

There came a chime of bells from a clock in another part of the house, and white-jacket appeared beamingly in the doorway, bearing furs.  “Awready, Mist’ Bibbs,” he announced.  “You’ ma say wrap up wawm f’ you’ ride, an’ she cain’ go with you to-day, an’ not f’git go see you’ pa at fo’ ’clock.  Aw ready, suh.”

He equipped Bibbs for the daily drive Dr. Gurney had commanded; and in the manner of a master of ceremonies unctuously led the way.  In the hall they passed the Moor, and Bibbs paused before it while white-jacket opened the door with a flourish and waved condescendingly to the chauffeur in the car which stood waiting in the driveway.