She began to inspect titles, pulling out books here, substituting others there, carrying some to other cases. "You won't know where anything is, anyhow, in these new surroundings," she said, "so you might as well start right--separate cases for fiction, history, philosophy, and so on. Please have the poetry over the settle by the fire." "Surely," said I. "That goes without saying. Here, I'll lug the books in, and you put 'em up. Only I insist on the reference books going over by my desk." "Yes, sir, you may have them," she laughed. I wheeled in load after load. "Lord," I cried, "of the making of many books, _et cetera!_ I'll never buy another one, or else I'll never move again." "You'll never move again, you mean," said she. "Look, all the nice poetry by the west fireplace. Don't the green Globe editions look pretty in the white cases? And Keats right by the chimney. Please, may I put the garden books, and old Mr. Thoreau, by the east fire?" "Give old Mr. Thoreau any seat he wants," said I, "only Mr. Emerson must sit beside him." "Where's Mr. Emerson? Oh, yes, here he is, in a blue suit. Here, we'll plant the rose of beauty on the brow of chaos!" She took the set of Emerson and placed it in the top shelf by the east fireplace, above a tumbled heap of unassorted volumes, standing back to survey it with her gurgling laugh. "What is so decorative as books?" she cried. "They beat pictures or wall paper. Oh, the nice room, the nice books, nice old Mr. Emerson, nice twin fires!" "And nice librarian," I added. She darted a look at me, laughed with heightened colour, and herself added, with a glance at her wrist watch, "And nice dinner!" I brought back some of my manuscripts after dinner, in case the room should be completed before supper time. We attacked it again with enthusiasm, hers being no less, apparently, than mine, for it was indeed wonderful to see the place emerge from bareness into the most alluring charm as the books filled the shelves, as my two Morris chairs were placed before the fires, as my three or four treasured rugs were unrolled on the rather uneven but charmingly old floor which just fitted the old, rugged hearthstones, and finally as the two bright Hiroshiges were placed in the centre of the two white wood panels over the fireplaces, and the other pictures hung over the bookcases. "Wait," cried the girl suddenly. "Have you any vases?" "A couple of glass ones," I said. "Why?" "Get them, and never mind."