Bulstrode was not at all pleased with the arrangement, and became suddenly very strict and exacted a great deal of work from Lewis with his books. Lewis did the work, putting his mind to it very steadily, for fear Bulstrode would complain to Skelton, and then Skelton might not let him ride in the race, after all. Bulstrode was opposed to the whole thing. If Lewis lost the race he should be sorry, because he loved the boy; and if Hilary Blair lost it--good heavens! What would become of that dear Mrs. Blair, with her soft eyes and her sweet, ridiculous Latin? Bulstrode was talking about this one day, in his own den, to Lewis. This was the only shabby spot at Deerchase. It was smoky and snuffy to the last degree, and full of that comfortable untidiness which marks a man of books. However, here were only a few battered volumes, that contrasted strangely with Skelton’s magnificent array down in the library, which lined one vast room and overflowed into another. This contrast always tickled Bulstrode immensely, who had a way of calling attention to it, and then tapping his head, saying, “Here’s my library.” And there it was indeed. Lewis was balancing himself on the wide window seat, which was about twenty feet from the ground, and, after the manner of boys, trying to see how far he could lean out without tumbling over and breaking his neck. Nevertheless, he was listening very closely to Bulstrode, whose attention was divided. He was, all at once, pursuing the thread of his own thoughts, saving Lewis from tumbling out, and blowing smoke through the open window. It was one of the peculiarly bright, cloudless March days that come in that latitude.