She was pleased that the approach did not clash with her fantasies. She mounted a broad staircase, dark but roomy, and at the command of the concierge, rang a tinkling bell at one of the doorways that faced her. Dr. Porhoët opened in person.
“Arthur and Mademoiselle are already here,” he said, as he led her in.
They went through a prim French dining-room, with much woodwork and heavy scarlet hangings, to the library. This was a large room, but the bookcases that lined the walls, and a large writing-table heaped up with books, much diminished its size. There were books everywhere. They were stacked on the floor and piled on every chair. There was hardly space to move. Susie gave a cry of delight.
“Now you mustn’t talk to me. I want to look at all your books.”
“You could not please me more,” said Dr. Porhoët, “but I am afraid they will disappoint you. They are of many sorts, but I fear there are few that will interest an English young lady.”
He looked about his writing-table till he found a packet of cigarettes. He gravely offered one to each of his guests. Susie was enchanted with the strange musty smell of the old books, and she took a first glance at them in general. For the most part they were in paper bindings, some of them neat enough, but more with broken backs and dingy edges; they were set along the shelves in serried rows, untidily, without method or plan. There were many older ones also in bindings of calf and pigskin, treasure
