There is generally a little interlude of this kind in the course of the visit. Its effect stays for a few minutes, Mr. Amber slowly repeating to himself "every berry--every single berry, sir," in the tone of one impressively warning against any challenge of his statement; and then he simmers down and recollects that his visitor is the Percival who occupies a large portion of his heart. He likes to take Percival's hand. He likes to feel that warm young grasp within his own chilly old palm. He likes to lead the boy and feel those sturdy young fingers twitch to the excitement of what tales he can tell or what treasures he can show. "Now what have we got to show you in our shelves this evening? Nothing much, we fear. Oh, yes, we have, though! Those folios--we've rearranged them so as to fill the ninth and tenth in this tier. That was your suggestion, wasn't it? I agree, you know, I quite agree. It's an improvement." "Keeps them stiffer," says Percival, head on one side, rather proud. "Just exactly what it does! Keeps them stiffer. Lessens the strain. We ought to have thought of that, Percival. We reproach ourselves there, you know." There is a tinge of the self-reproach in his voice, and Percival hastens with: "Of course you would have done it yourself, as you said, but you get into your ways, don't you?" "Well, we do," agrees Mr. Amber, very comforted. "That's just what it is--we get into our ways." At other times when Percival comes to the library, there is no answer to his knock on the door. He turns the handle very gently; pokes in his head very quietly; peers all about the apartment; cannot see Mr. Amber; enters very cautiously; and presently espies him perched high aloft on one of the wheeled book-ladders, sitting cross-legged, catalogue on knee, pencil in hand, brow puckered in mental labour. Then Percival closes the door behind him, so that there shall be scarcely the faintest click, and gives a tiny cough and says: "Very busy, Mr. Amber?" "'M-'m," says Mr. Amber, wagging his head, waving the pencil and frowning horribly. "'M-'m!" Percival tiptoes with enormous caution to the other ladder; wheels it to a shelf where he has found entertainment; selects his book; perches himself; and for an hour or more the two, each on his ladder, the child and the man, the lissom young form and the withered old figure, sit high among the books, entranced among the worlds that books discover. "'M-'m!" says Mr. Amber at intervals, frantically waving. "Only coughed," explains Percival. "Only that choking, you know. It--" "'M-'m! 'M-'m!" and they bury themselves again. That is the usual course. Once or twice there have been conversations across the room from the tops of the ladders. Percival has looked up from his book to find Mr. Amber turned towards him and regarding him with eyes that do not appear to see his smile of greeting. "Mr. Amber, is there anything funny about me that you look at me so?"